


desperate times call for criminal measures

by RenderedReversed



Series: this ain't no fairytale [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Derogatory Language toward the disabled, Drama, Item Shop AU, M/M, Recettear AU, Shit's going down, Tom is president of the #ProtectHarrysFeelings2k16 club, adventurer!Tom, best read in series order, sorcerer!shopkeeper!Harry, sorry it's only for a bit, tempers run high
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 15:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8759494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: Harry likes Colin. He’s a good kid, and an even better employee. Hard working, motivated, clever, outgoing…what’s not to like? But Hedwig’s financial records aren’t matching up, and there’s only one possible answer. What Harry wants to know is why, and that particular answer doesn’t come through process of elimination.Fortunately, he has Tom.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My conversion rate is 10 USD = 1 galleon, for the record.

It’s been a week since Colin’s training finished, and Harry is more than satisfied with him. Hedwig’s customers took the transition well, and Harry’s had more time to work on his other projects, like stockpiling some of his crafts for later sale. He’s not completely one-hundred-percent on letting Collin run the shop while he’s out diving with Tom, but Harry doesn’t doubt he’ll get there eventually.

Colin’s a sharp kid. He’s learning more every day, though a little chatty with the customers sometimes. It causes problems during peak hours, but he’s clearly trying his best to restrain himself after a word from his boss. Harry knows it’s his way of relaxing his nerves, so it wasn’t a reprimand, just a notification.

Fortunately, Tom’s stopped glaring at Colin (at least not in range of Harry anyway). He does stop to give him a hard stare sometimes, but he ignores him for the most part. Harry supposes that’s better than nothing.

Speaking of Tom, now that he has more time, Harry can actually start planning proper dungeon dives. Usually, what he does is hit up a dungeon with the most used ingredients and items—there’s one big glaring flaw in that method: he loses out on important ingredients in other less cost-efficient dungeons.

Of course, he’s got a better idea of Tom’s abilities now, too, and not to inflate the man’s ego or anything, but his abilities are pretty damn high. He’s capable of going to most of the dungeons Harry needs—with varying levels of success, but not anything Tom absolutely cannot deal with alone (or with a little assistance from Harry in the form of healing and buffs).

“Tough stone, ghost tears, carrion fangs, fairy grass… Four different dungeons for four different items feels kind of like a waste, but the fusion possibilities…” Harry sighs and circles all four in his notes. “They’re all necessary. I can’t afford to cut corners before I’ve even started.”

Eventually, Harry wants to set up a stall in Slytherin. Right now his customer base is not of the rich variety—Hedwig’s is a general store, and so the adventurers that come are mostly just buying his potions and consumables. Even if he set out some higher quality equipment, he just didn’t have the proper customer base to supply a demand for it.

With a stall in Slytherin, he could sell higher quality crafts and attract those customers back to Hedwig’s. Now though, it’s all about building up a stock in order to have things to sell. Harry doesn’t want to target too specific of a group—if he only sold sorcerer equipment, people might start getting suspicious, or he would alienate his current customers—so a wide variety of ingredients is necessary.

It’s also a point that Harry needs base equipment for fusion. The best possible option would be if he collaborated with a blacksmith from, say, Hufflepuff, but that would put his identity at risk. So far he’s been buying equipment from the marketplace and finding them from dungeon dives with Tom, but that limits the quality of his craft. Even at the highest level of fusion, there’s a ceiling he’ll hit if the base equip isn’t good enough.

For now, his methods work and are decently profitable. In the future, however, he’ll need to address this dilemma somehow.

Hedwig’s is open five and a half days out of seven—closed Thursdays and open only after one on Mondays—which currently gives him those time slots to dungeon dive. It is certainly not ideal, but Harry can make do. Besides, Colin has potential. Though, he is only sixteen, so maybe he should consider hiring another worker to help run the shop…

 _I’ll hold off on that route for now_ , Harry thinks, tucking away his notes. “First step is to consolidate what I have.”

Running a business sure is tough.

* * *

A week later, Tom walks into the shop (after closing, naturally) and finds Harry bent over his desk, staring with no little degree of consternation at the large book in front of him.

“Problem, dear?”

It’s not that Harry doesn’t notice Tom’s entering—the wards had alerted him prior—he just doesn’t process the question until a good half a minute later. His distraction startles himself, but most of his head is still with Hedwig’s finance records.

After Hedwig’s started to gain in popularity, Harry had decided to brush up on his magical recording systems. He implemented the current system himself based on a combination of a few templates—therefore, Harry knows how it runs from A to Z. If he made a mistake, he’d be able to fix it himself.

The problem is, the system’s been in place for a good couple of months now and nothing broke before. Some bugs could only be revealed through time, true, but with the information he has right now—

“Money’s missing,” Harry mutters, tapping his fingers on the table top. Panic threatens to swell in his chest, but the ironclad mind of an adventurer smothers it out. Hedwig’s first financial snafu: he should’ve seen it coming.

Tom frowns. “How much?” he asks, coming up to stand behind him. Then, as if recalling something, he takes a step back to get out of peeking range.

Harry…actually doesn’t mind. Tom basically has a stake in Hedwig’s as well. He leans back and rubs his eyes with a hand, using the other to wave haphazardly at his notes. “Fifty galleons and a few knuts. That amount shouldn’t be able to build up if there was an accidental rounding error in the system. I went over and did some calculations on the bigger orders by hand—those are right. And the smaller purchases shouldn’t be able to add up to that so quickly.”

“May I?”

“Knock yourself out,” Harry says, and gets up out of the chair to make room for Tom. “The records work with the standard voice commands too so you don’t have to flip, just be precise.”

Tom inclines his head. “Got it.”

In the meantime, Harry goes to get them both a pint of cider. He feels like he needs it.

By the time he gets back (after downing a pint himself and getting a refill, and alright he really did need that slice of cake he ate), Tom appears to be finishing up a page of notes of his own.

“I’ve made a few of the same conclusions as you,” he declares, taking his pint. When he moves to get up, Harry waves him back down and simply pulls up another chair. “The loss is relatively recent—my date for them, however, precedes yours by several days. When it began, the loss didn’t exceed a sickle. Oversight’s easy when you’re only looking at the leftmost digit.”

“How do you know they’re connected?” asks Harry as he leans over to read for himself.

“I didn’t, at first,” Tom replies. Then he points the tip of the quill at a patch in his notes. “However, if you sum up the losses from my starting date to the present…”

“The appraisal fee,” Harry whispers, staring at the calculations. “Wait, total loss was fifty galleons and—”

“It’s divisible,” he says. “Ten knuts per an item? How suspicious that there were 2,474 appraisals where each one of those resulted in a negative ten knuts transaction. It comes out even in the book; all two thousand listings are condensed into appraisal summaries, but money’s missing because the cost of the appraisal was never paid for. Do _you_ remember some two thousand appraisals where you bought the customer’s item for exactly ten knuts?”

Harry snorts. “Definitely not. Besides, on a good day, I get maybe thirty appraisals? It would take me eighty days to get two thousand _whatever_!”

As the results from Tom’s calculations settle, there’s really only one conclusion to be made.

“You said you had theft preventions set in place?” Tom asks, voice dropping low.

Harry sighs. “Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t right about these things.”

“…Pardon?”

“I relaxed the wards,” he explains.

Tom looks at him like he’s the walking definition of stupidity. “ _Why_?”

“At first it was in case he made any mistakes. Then after training, I wanted to know, so I left it off.”

“And your alarm wouldn’t tell you? Like it’s supposed to?”

Harry groans. “It would’ve! But it’s a _magical_ _alarm_ , Tom. Colin is sixteen. He’s a kid! If an alarm went off on him, no one would ever trust him again. _Ever_.”

Tom crosses his arms. “So that means it’s fine for him to steal from you?”

“No! Of course not! But Colin’s not the type of kid to steal for fun.”

“How would you know?” Tom pushes away from the table and stands up. “You’re too nice, Harry. If your bleeding heart won’t let you, I’ll go apprehend that little thief myself—”

“Oh, don’t act all righteous!” Harry snaps back. “You suspected him as much as I did!”

They both pause, one standing and the other pushing off against the furniture. Tom fixes him with the sort of stare that would’ve broken a lesser man, and Harry meets it with all the willpower of a man who saved the world twice. They’re at an impasse, and both of them know it.

Tom sits back down, though his gaze doesn’t waver. “Cider?” he asks.

“Cider,” Harry agrees, and sits back down as well. His voice is softer when he asks, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“…For some reason, you like that brat,” mutters Tom after he throws his pint back. “The thief stole from magicless stalls and Colin Creevey has never held a job. He used to sell paintings on the streets of Gryffindor. His family’s in poverty and his brother’s sick. There was a possibility he was desperate—thirteen sickles an hour is a respectable starting wage.”

“I understand,” Harry tells him quietly. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

Tom clenches his fist and turns away, and Harry wishes he didn’t. He wants to see him: his face, his eyes, the cloudy expression he makes sometimes when Harry lets him alone. It’s there now, certainly—that part of himself he holds aloft to the sky.

Birds could not reach that brooding storm. It lives and thunders far above the tallest mountain’s peak, so far away that Harry usually can’t see it. He doesn’t know who that Tom is. Tom has never introduced him, never mentioned him—he pretends he doesn’t exist, and Harry wonders if that’s okay.

He doesn’t say anything either, because the Master of Death is the same. That persona that can’t be ripped from his soul even if he tried—that cruel, heartless, icy Master of Death, bleak and strong and untouchable, looms over Harry’s head in his every waking moment. He wonders if Tom prefers that other Tom, wants to return to him, wants to leave.

It’ll be lonely without him.

 _You’re a coward, Potter,_ Harry thinks. _Courage? Bravery? What’s that?_

“What do you plan to do?” Tom asks.

“I want to find out why. Kid’s got to have a reason, right?”

“And then?”

Harry pauses. “I’ll decide when I get there. You in?”

Tom sighs, reaches over, and snatches Harry’s drink out of his hands. He takes a swig for himself before smiling. “Naturally,” he drawls. “You’re too careless without me, darling. Honestly, at least have a plan.”

Harry doesn’t like where his thoughts go, so he smiles back and says, “You’re enabling me. Maybe you’re a bad influence.”

Tom deadpans, “As if you aren’t one yourself?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. He drowns himself in cider to hide his expression. It’s surely so ugly, it’d chase Tom away. “Well, what else are friends for.”

* * *

It’s late in the afternoon when Collin’s shift is ending. A giant egg has been cracked over the sky, and as the sun descends from its perch, the yolk has mixed into the landscape, bleeding orange and yellow strands from horizon-to-horizon.

Hedwig’s is usually kept open a bit later into the evening, just in case adventurers are coming back from their travels and eager to do business. But for some reason, the day is slow, and the customers dwindle to a count of zero despite some passerby on the street. There’s no one watching; only Collin sits, alone, with Harry probably in the back occupied with orders or new stock.

The ring of the cash register is quiet.

“You know,” Harry says, startling his employee something terrible, “I did like you.”

The thief has been caught.

“Sir, I-I can explain!”

“Yes,” Harry agrees, nodding. “I expect you to. Why don’t you step away from the counter, Collin?”

He does so, slow and trembling. If Collin was a leaf on a tree, Harry would suppose he’d be the first to fall. It isn’t good—not terrible either, but certainly not good, and Harry craves to know why. Furthermore, he craves to know why he attracts this sort, this sort that was made for breaking his trust. Maybe it’s like flies and filth—they can scent something rotten in the air, and come buzzing about his bloody hands and deathful memories to seek the corpses long gone.

Harry’s had better Mondays, and he guesses he’s had worse, too.

Collin quivers. “I… I’m sorry.”

“I told you before I don’t care much for lip service,” Harry says, keeping his voice steady and even. “If you were sorry, you wouldn’t have stolen from me.”

“I know, sir,” Collin says, and his voice breaks a little on the last word. “You were nothing but kind to me, and I…”

“Finish what you were saying,” Harry chides when he stops.

“I s-stole from you.”

“Yes. Do you know how much you stole from me?”

“Fifty galleons, five sickles, and five knuts,” Collin breathes.

He nods in reply, expressionless and solemn. “That’s quite a bit of money, you know.”

“I-I know, sir. I’m sorry.”

“The more you repeat it, the less I’ll believe it,” Harry says. “Are you going to try and run?”

“I—” Collin pauses. “I don’t think you’d trust whatever answer I gave you.”

He’s a bright kid. “This is true. But just so you know, the entire shop’s been warded up. Forget running out the door, you’ll have better luck getting out of a prison cell.” When he sees the kid pale, Harry realizes what Collin is expecting. It’s not a far stretch, and Hufflepuff would certainly demand he be jailed. “First and foremost, I think you owe me an explanation. Tom?”

Tom strolls in through the entrance to Harry’s house, terrifying Collin further. Tom hasn’t made one appearance in the shop today. Back doors, Harry thinks, are a beautiful thing.

The adventurer’s grip on Collin’s arm looks like it’ll bruise. Harry considers telling him to tone it down, but then supposes a little intimidation wouldn’t hurt—and he doubts Tom would listen to him anyway.

“Let’s take this somewhere a little more private, yes?”

* * *

‘A little more private’ is actually just Harry’s kitchen. Collin sits, or more like is forced to sit, directly across from Harry, and Tom sits casually on the table itself. Neither men offer him refreshments.

“My family used to be better off,” he begins. “Not…not rich, or middle class, but we could afford food and some other things.

“I have a younger brother. A few years ago, he went to visit my mother’s side of the family with mum. Sometime during his stay, the village caught a strain of sickness—dragon pox, we were told. My mum died there. Dennis managed to come back, but a few days after, he caught it, too.

“We—my dad and I—went looking for the cure. We thought for sure we could find a shop that sold it, since it was the King’s creation, but not one did, so we went to the imperial doctor instead. But who knew that they wouldn’t see him unless we proved we could afford it? They didn’t even look at him! And we…even if we sold all our belongings, we wouldn’t be able to pay their price…so we looked for another way.

“Eventually, a sorcerer responded to one of our flyers. They quoted us a price a fifth of what the imperial doctor estimated. It was still expensive, of course, but at least we got to keep our home…so we sold mother’s old jewelry, and her dresses, and the silverware…anything we could get our hands on—and all our savings, too, we used.”

Collin sniffs. His brow furrows—with anger or despair, Harry doesn’t know—and the tension of his shoulders make him look even smaller than he was before.

“It was a fake. We should’ve known; it was too good to be true, but—for Dennis, we had to believe! The sorcerer disappeared with our money, and the potion he gave us never made my brother better. All we’ve been able to do is buy potions for the symptoms, but…” _That isn’t enough_.

Dragon pox is a vicious disease. Harry’s treated it a few times—not a lot, since Albus had standardized the cure, but he knows it’s definitely something a sorcerer shouldn’t trifle with. It drains away at their magic, turns it against their body, starts an itch so bad some sorcerers scratched all their skin off.

It’s a contagious disease that only strikes the magical, so the mundane, a larger percent of the population, are safe from it. Collin, clearly non-magical, is able to tend to his brother without catching the disease, but long-term sickness isn’t cheap.

“You say your brother has been fighting for years?” Harry asks.

Collin nods a bit jerkily; tears have made their home at the corners of his eyes, and he fights not to disturb them lest more spill down his cheeks. “My dad is a rancher in Gryffindor. He sells milk, and occasionally meats to a local butcher shop. I tried to help at first by selling my paintings, but it wasn’t enough, so I tried to find a job…”

“No one would hire you,” Tom states. It’s fact, and Collin doesn’t deny it.

“Some did, but they didn’t need a permanent worker—only help during the holiday season. In the end, I started to steal... I didn’t want it traced back to dad, so I only stole in Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw has too many magical protections, and I would be caught in Slytherin. And then, well, I saw your sign—”

“Did you apply with the intention to steal from me, Collin?” Harry asks.

Collin hesitates, and then, he answers, “Yes.”

“I see.”

There’s a pause, and then as if he could take it no longer, Collin blurts, “But—I—I didn’t _want_ to! I love working at Hedwig’s! Here—the people—it was so new, and you never yelled at me when I messed up or made a mistake—you taught me, you cared to teach me about all these things I never knew before. I didn’t know there were five different uses for slime fluid, o-or what goes into a health potion—how to tell if an earth crystal’s fake or what the different colors of a salamander’s scale mean!

“You taught me that. And I know—I know it probably doesn’t mean much to you, I know it looks like you didn’t mean much to me, but I loved working here, loved working for you, and I’m grateful for every minute of it, and every time I stole, every knut I took—I wished I’d worked here sooner, before the debt piled up, and I didn’t have to do it. But I did, and I know apologies won’t cut it, so whatever punishment you want to give me—I, I’ll take it. I don’t have any excuses. If you turn me in, I just hope they won’t take my brother and my dad, too.”

No one says anything for a moment. Collin slides back into his seat, as sometime during his outburst he’d stood up. Tom is silent, still casually sitting on the table, and Harry knows he’s waiting, waiting for Harry to make his choice.

Harry sighs. “First, I think there’s a more pressing matter at hand than the money you stole.”

Collin blinks. “W-what?”

Tom looks equally baffled, and then— “Harry, I know I said you had a bleeding heart, but please tell me you aren’t thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

Harry shakes his head at him. Despite this, he still says, “It’s exactly what you’re thinking.”

“Don’t be an idiot; you’re a—” Tom pauses. Collin’s presence stops him from saying it, but Harry knows what he was about to say. _Sorcerer_ , he’s a sorcerer.

“…Sir?”

“Collin, with your permission, I’d like to examine your brother, Dennis.”

Before Collin can answer, Tom smoothly interrupts. His smile is jagged and full of knives for teeth. “And _I_ ,” he says, “would like to speak to you, Harry. Alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uggghhhhhhhhh......... -zombie noises-
> 
> Here.......you go......... -crawls back into Hole of Impending Doom-
> 
>  
> 
> Um so ya, finals are rapidly approaching, I'm freaking out, but hey here's a new installment! I predict it'll be 2 parts, maaaybee 3 if the 2nd part gets too wordy.
> 
> Harry and Tom finally have their first mini spat! How exciting~*~*~*~*~*~*~! Also, Harry has issues, and Tom definitely has a pile of his own, Jesus Christ. Misunderstandings? They are still quite abound between them both. Well, everything will be fine...eventually. They really need to talk more.
> 
> You can expect to see me again after finals, I suppose. Not a big chance I'll update again before that (but who knows amirite)


	2. Chapter 2

The second they’re inside Harry’s bedroom, Tom backs him up against a wall and _glares_.

Harry is unimpressed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tom,” he says, sighing.

“No,” Tom says. “No. Harry, has anyone ever told you that you have a worrying lack of self-preservation?”

Harry crosses his arms. “Why no, I can’t say anyone has.”

“Then I’m telling you now: you have a worrying lack of self-preservation.”

“Gee, thanks.”

It’s not the right thing to say. Tom makes a growly sound that Harry’s never heard him make before, and then pulls away to start pacing back and forth. It makes Harry feel kinda guilty—okay, a lot guilty. He doesn’t want to say for sure that Tom is worried about his wellbeing, but he’s certainly frustrated about something involving Harry, and. Harry gets it. He’s not the easiest person to get along with—or at least, the Master of Death wasn’t.

Okay, he’s extrapolating now, but it’s not like he can’t. The number of people who have tried to get along with _Harry_ can be counted on one hand. How else is he supposed to judge these things? _You fucked up, Potter,_ Harry thinks gloomily, eyes on Tom. _Don’t know how, but you fucked up somehow._

“…Tom?” he asks hesitantly.

Tom paces for a few seconds more until his head snaps up and he paces back over, cornering Harry between a rock and a hard place both literally and metaphorically. Harry has to crane his neck to look up at him.

“You are not good for my health,” he murmurs. His eyes catch Harry’s and he can feel his breath hitch—hopes Tom doesn’t hear it, too. Tom Riddle is…intense. He’s always known this, but it’s a little different than the intensity a smiling, unstoppable Tom Riddle has. No, this one is serious; he is immovable rather than unstoppable, like a boulder Harry could never dream to push.

He can’t hear his heart through the rock, can’t read a human sculpture. And it makes him feel so small, so tiny, like an ant hoping to cross with minimal disaster. If that boulder moves an inch in his direction, decides to roll over and down the hill, it’d be impossible for him to stop. And it’s scary, because no one should ever have that sort of power over him, but Harry thinks if Tom said he hates him now, Harry Potter might as well disappear again for the next ten years and leave his body for the Master of Death to occupy.

 _No,_ Harry thinks in a daze, _you’re not good for my health, Tom._

No one should have that sort of power over him again—not since Cho, not ever after Cho. Is it so impossible to be friends with someone without caring so much about their opinion? It’s been too long since he’s had a friend to remember.

The thought of Tom using and abandoning him makes his chest ache. It gnaws on his heart, grabs and pulls and growls and shakes, and he thinks he hears his heart squeak. It’s a flexible little thing, he knows—ductile, even after all this time, and it’ll survive Tom telling him he hates him, but the fact that that’s even a possibility just makes his heart squeak louder. What Master of Death? Just rename him ‘Chew Toy’ Harry.

“What do you think I’ll do if something hurts you?”

“Leave,” Harry whispers; it’s an immediate answer.

Tom’s eyes narrow, and then he can’t see them anymore when Tom pulls him to his chest. His arms are a little too tight and cage-like. That mixture of discomfort and comfort is so unexpected it almost makes Harry yelp—Tom clearly has no experience in hugging people.

“You are the most foolish person I’ve ever met,” Tom informs him. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

Harry clutches at the fabric of Tom’s clothes. “It’s only natural—leave behind the wounded, and carry on with the strong.”

“And what of me?” he demands. “Why did you pick me up that night, if I was wounded and you were strong?”

Harry pauses. “Well,” he says, “I’m the stupid one, remember?”

“That’s not good enough, Harry,” Tom tells him, but he doesn’t let go. “What would you do if someone hurts me?”

The answer comes, a combination of Harry Potter and the Master of Death. It smells of blood and fury and death, the echo of boulders rumbling down a mountain, stone catching and shattering as it smatters against the landscape—sound and breath would not last in its wake. Sanity is a fleeting thing.

“Terrible things,” he whispers, muffled by the breathing stone of Tom’s chest.

“You see? To those who hurt you, I’ll do even worse. Tell me, if I was injured again, would you leave me?”

Harry closes his eyes. “It’s not the same.”

“It is.”

“I can heal you.”

“Your magic is not unlimited.”

“ _I can_ ,” Harry insists.

“And if you couldn’t, would you leave me?”

“…No.”

Tom smiles. “Darling, I wouldn’t leave you either.”

The pet name, a bear trap, strikes him where he’s weak. Harry can feel his cheeks burn, his ears blazon with the thudding of his heart. It’s not fair—Tom doesn’t play fair. Harry tells him so, and is rewarded with a laugh.

“How’d you like it if I called you by a pet name?” Harry grumbles, indignant.

“You should try it to find out.”

Harry grumbles some more. _So not fair_.

Tom lets go of him, though his touch lingers for a moment and it warms Harry even further. But there are things to talk about, especially since Colin is waiting in the kitchen. They’ve already been awhile, Harry thinks.

“You’re putting yourself in an abnormal amount of danger. I don’t like it,” declares Tom.

Harry frowns. Then, in the same straightforward fashion, he says, “I don’t see what danger you’re seeing.”

“Two words: dragon pox?”

“Oh,” Harry says. “That’s not that dangerous.”

Tom gives him a disbelieving look. “It’s _contagious_ , Harry. And if that brat is to be believed, there’s not a cure in the entirety of Hogwarts.”

“Do you think I’m capable, or incapable?”

“That’s not—”

“Capable, or incapable?”

“ _Capable_ ,” Tom replies impatiently. “But—”

“Dragon pox is nasty, but it’s well within my abilities to cure,” Harry reassures. “Naturally, I also have safeguards against it. It’s important we cure Colin’s brother as soon as possible.”

“If your bleeding heart can’t stand his suffering, I’ll go over now and slice off his head—there, problem solved.”

Harry huffs. “Look, don’t you think it’s kind of suspicious?”

Immediately, Tom’s irritation vanishes. A blank, analyzing look replaces it. “Suspicious,” he repeats slowly.

“We’re in Hogwarts. Capital of Scotia. _Where Albus Dumbledore_ lives—the creator of the standard dragon pox cure. Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious that _no shop_ is selling it? No shop, where there should be literally dozens licensed for dragon pox cure, is selling it. Sure, it’s not a common disease anymore, but it’s the King’s specialty—you’d think they’d make sure to keep some in stock. You know, in case a foreigner comes _looking for it_?”

Tom considers. Meanwhile, Harry keeps going—he’s on a roll by now. “It’s a contagious disease that strikes sorcerers only. In a kingdom where our king is a sorcerer, and our magic advisor is highly favored, don’t you think it’s a little suspicious that the imperial doctor turned them away?”

“He should’ve considered that case a top priority before it spreads,” Tom mutters. “If the Creeveys lived in Ravenclaw and _dragon pox_ made its rounds—”

“There’d be an epidemic,” Harry agrees. “Worthy of an uproar. A rich nation ruled by the Alchemist King getting hit by dragon pox? We’d be the laughing stock of every surrounding kingdom! And isn’t it a little suspicious that—”

“A sorcerer gives them an offer they can just barely afford, right at the time they most desperately need it,” Tom finishes. “A deal they can’t deny, one bound to throw them into debt.”

“Suspicious,” they both say in unison.

Tom’s brow furrows. “But it’s been years,” he says. “Why would anyone wait that long for it to spread? At this point, Dennis Creevey is as good as a vegetable. The Creeveys are ranchers—their home, while technically under Gryffindor territory, is far from town. He’s practically self-contained…”

They both pause, and suddenly, Harry realizes it— “Dennis is a sorcerer though. Even if the Creeveys are poor, upon his death there would be a ceremony—”

“And it’d be easy for a person in power to smudge the details of his death, which means his coffin would make the route through the district to the graveyard—”

Tom looks at Harry. Harry looks at Tom.

“Pretty bad Monday,” Harry says.

“Pretty bad Monday,” Tom agrees.

* * *

Tom ends up accompanying him to the Creeveys. Harry can tell the man still doesn’t like it, but it means a lot that he came on his own initiative. They’re in this together, and that’s a good thought to have.

“My father’s working with the animals,” Colin says. “Um, we made sure to keep our clothes that we wear to see Dennis and our work clothes different—”

“So the disease doesn’t spread,” Harry finishes, nodding approvingly. “You’ve done well. In this case, please wait outside—the diagnosis won’t take long.”

Colin gives him a worried look. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I just want to see how far the disease has gotten. Your brother’s been strong holding on for these years—most sorcerers fall within one.”

At that, Colin looks both proud and irreconcilably sad. “I’m supposed to be the older one, but he’s always been stronger. Dennis…he means everything to me.”

Harry pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best.”

Colin directs them to his brother’s room and then departs, telling them where to find him when they’re done. Now that he’s home, he’s going to help his father outside. Harry nods, understanding. It’ll be a simple task to find him, and he’s not scared Colin will run, either. This is most certainly his home—Tom knows that for a fact—and the kid’s loyal to his family.

Before they enter, Harry turns to Tom. “You’ve got good eyes,” he says. “So what you see will be different from a sorcerer.”

Tom frowns. “‘See’?”

“Yes. I myself cannot see it with my eyes, but my magic is sensitive enough to ‘feel’ it. It isn’t with all cases, however, but I have some experience dealing with dragon pox.”

Tom nods slowly, so Harry opens the door. Immediately, the scent of herbs and sickness drifts out from the room. What light there is comes from the only window, but it’s closed and on the opposite side from the bed. The arrangement must’ve happened sometime after Dennis’ sickness; there are scuff marks on the floor, exactly four, where the bed used to be beneath the window.

Dennis is asleep.

Suddenly, Harry feels himself being pulled back. Tom shifts in front of him, rapier at the ready as it points at an invisible foe high above the bed.

Harry understands—he feels it, too. Something hungry is staring at him, drooling after his magic. They’re in its domain, now; the walls, the floorboards, the ceiling are all within its control. It tries to find an opening to bite at his magic, but whenever it tries, his magic snaps back like a whip and it recoils in an angry mess of pain.

“What do you see?” he asks, calm.

“There’s…a dragon,” Tom describes. “A coiled snake with wings made of green sludge, with red eyes and sharp claws. There’s some sort of noxious fume drifting out from it. It’s looking at you,” he adds, his own eyes narrowing.

Harry nods. He touches Tom’s arm briefly, telling him to put away his weapon. “I’m afraid you can’t do anything against it. Just the same, it can’t touch you, and it knows better than to challenge me.”

Harry walks around toward the bed. Tom tenses and immediately steps up beside him, but doesn’t try to impede his path again.

“It’s…”

“Yes?”

“Still looking at you, but… Harry, the fumes—”

Harry raises his hand and flicks. He can feel the contagion howl in pain once more, whatever tendril of its being that had desired him cleanly repelled.

Tom blinks. “It’s frightened,” he mutters. “And crying.”

“It should be,” Harry says, serene. “I’m much scarier than dragon pox.”

Tom just stares. Lesson taught, Harry turns his attention to the boy on the bed.

Dennis Creevey certainly resembles his older brother. He looks so young and fragile, a boy no older than fourteen, just lying there completely unaware of the world. The sickness has turned his skin green, peppered with the pockmarks of the disease’s name. It’s good that he’s asleep, Harry thinks. Perhaps it’s his body or his magic that’s trying to save enough energy to keep him alive.

After casting a few diagnosis spells, Harry makes his conclusion.

“His will is strong,” he says, “And his conditions are favorable. The amount of magic he has as a sorcerer is small, which reduces the draining effect of dragon pox. It’s why he’s been able to survive for so long, but illness is illness. He doesn’t have much longer.”

Tom hums, apathetic for the most part. “Can you cure it?”

Harry smiles. “Of course. But we must be quick—I figure he only has two weeks left? Roughly? That means brewing the cure myself is a no-go. Takes about a month for full effectiveness, but we don’t have that kind of time.”

Tom frowns. “I thought you couldn’t brew potions.”

“Nah, I just don’t like doing it. Too many measurements for me.”

They leave the room and go find Colin. Burning their clothes isn’t necessary; one sweep of his magic and any lingering contagion (on Tom, that is—the disease had been far too afraid of Harry after his reprimands) evaporates into nothingness. It’d be a different matter with a mundane disease, but magical diseases have the sort of sentience that makes them easier for Harry, and harder for others.

Magic is Harry’s zone. He feels comfortable here, working in his element, a fish in water. Already, he’s sorting out the ingredients he already has and those he needs—Tom should be capable. And, just as well, there’s that other matter…

“R-really? You can save him?”

Harry smiles and hopes its reassuring. “I can call in a favor from a potioneer friend of mine; he knows how to produce a nonstandard cure. But it’s cutting it a little close; Dennis has around two weeks left, and I still need time to get the materials. I figure…we’ll be back in five days?”

“Is there—” Colin pauses, and then shamefaced, ducks his head.

“That’s why, while I’m gone, I want you to run the shop for me.”

Tom turns on him. “ _Harry, we talked about this_ —”

Ignoring Tom, Harry keeps smiling. “Five days is a long time, and I can’t just leave my customers on short notice. You know where everything is, right, Colin?”

Colin’s jaw drops. “H-huh?”

“I know it’s sudden, especially since you’ve only been working part time, but keeping the trust of my customers is important. There’s really no other choice—I need to be there to harvest the materials, and I certainly can’t go into a dungeon alone. Unless, of course, you’re busy…then I really don’t know what I’ll do…”

Colin sputters, “N-no, I—anything—! But, how can you trust me?”

“Trust? Well, it’s true that you stole from me. However, this is extremely short notice, and someone has to tend to the store…” Harry trails off.

Beside him, Tom levels the poor kid with a glare that could bring down buildings. “You can try it and see what happens,” he says. “I promise you it won’t be a pleasant experience.”

Harry holds out the keys. “Seven in the morning tomorrow. Hedwig’s opens at eight,” he tells him.

Colin’s eyes flicker back and forth between them. He probably thinks it’s a trap of some sort, or at least, not the whole deal. Harry supposes he isn’t wrong, but it’d be a bad idea to reveal the full extent of his alarms. Some of them can get quite nasty.

Then, finally, that determined kid Harry was so interested in comes back. He takes the keys to Hedwig’s almost reverently. “I won’t let you down,” Colin swears.

Harry smiles. “That’s good. See you in five days.”

* * *

Home from an impromptu shopping trip, Tom casually swings himself onto Harry’s bed. “So, when do we leave?”

“Have I ever told you you’re my bestest friend ever?”

“…Harry.”

Harry laughs nervously. “Um, how does four in the morning sound?”

“That’s fine,” Tom says, much to his surprise. “I’ll be sleeping here, though.”

“…Don’t tell me you have everything with you already.”

“You can never be too prepared. Besides, it’s only five days. I expect you’ll be doing most of the packing.”

This is true. Harry thinks about the contents of his fridge. “Eh, yeah. I’ll pull some food and water from stock and make it up later. There’ll be some game at the dungeons anyway—it’s just the first one that’ll be a little troublesome.”

“If you don’t have any more preparations to make, come sleep,” Tom says lazily, patting the spot beside him.

“…What.”

“I said I’d be sleeping here, didn’t I?”

“Literally?! I have a guest room, you know! Actually, you should know—you sleep there sometimes.”

Tom smirks. “A joke, darling,” he says, rising in one smooth movement. “See you in the morning.”

An urge lodges itself in Harry’s throat. He wants to say ‘wait,’ but the disconnect between his brain and mouth leaves him helpless. Instead, he wraps his arms around Tom’s waist from behind, feeling hard muscles tense before they relax.

“Something wrong, Harry?”

“…I,” he begins, and hears his voice crack a little. It’s so embarrassing; his cheeks burn so hot Tom probably feels it under the fabric. “I, um, just wanted to say…thanks. You don’t have to do this, but you are…so, thanks.”

Tom’s hands are warm when he laces them with Harry’s. “I told you, didn’t I? As long as you keep thanking me, I’ll keep helping you.”

“…You make me feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”

At that, Tom laughs, deep and filling. “I assure you, that’s far from the truth. Your needs happen to coincide with my interests, that’s all.”

Harry squeezes his hands. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Tom lets go, his fingers lingering for a moment before sliding away. “Good night, Harry.”

“Good night, Tom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom what the hell you can't just offer to decapitate people like that. (Harry probably thought he was joking........but he was definitely serious let me tell you that.)
> 
> In the end, this installment will be 3 parts. My intention for 2 was denied by the OTP having a -much needed- conversation. Well, I'm not complaining. This does mean I won't have a Christmas special for you guys (or at least, not on time for Christmas), buuut oh well. Who needs mistletoes. Not this series, nope. (-sobs-)
> 
> Update on my IRL state: two of my most important exams are over, and I did horribly on one of them and did okay on the other. With them both combined (they're for the same class), I hope my professor will be merciful enough and give me a C since I will probably get an F on his final. Which is in like, 2 weeks. orz. Now for the other classes! Thanks for everyone's wishes!
> 
> Not sure when the next update will be, so see you when I see you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Points at new tags- There is a little bit derogatory language toward the disabled in this part, namely the use of the word "crippled"/"cripple". It isn't meant as an insult, but if it makes you uncomfortable, sorry in advance!

By definition, dungeons are areas where monsters congregate unrestrained—otherwise, any area out of town could be considered a dungeon. When monsters gather around a locus of power, such as a boss or an ancient landmark, the continuous attractive force builds an independent ecosystem in which the monsters can thrive.

Because of this, the monsters within dungeons are usually much stronger than their free-roaming brethren. A horse can outrun most encounters outside, but within a dungeon, a non-adventuring mount is entirely useless.

Instead of sleeping, Harry sits cross-legged on his bed in a meditative trance. It’s been quite the while since his last magical maintenance, and he needs to make sure his core is still devoid of irregularities.

Exhaustion and overuse are the two main causes of faults within a sorcerer’s core. When he was still adventuring, Harry meditated almost as much as he slept—out of necessity, no less; the consequences of not doing so as the Master of Death ranged from backfiring spells to intense sickness. Nowadays, he can go a couple of weeks without the same dutiful maintenance of the past. On one hand, that means he gets more sleep, but on the other…

“It’s a mess.”

A sorcerer’s core can be compared to a ball of yarn. With constant use, even if a sorcerer is diligent in wrapping it away after use, it still won’t look like it did originally. Meditation, then, is correcting all those irregularities—the threads of yarn are their strands of magic, and it’s important to keep them tangle-and-knot free.

Even though his core was messy in the past, there was still a sort of order to it. Yes, it was chaos, but it was chaos caused through one type of magic. The types of ‘tangles, knots, and loose ends’ he had to fix were all similar, so even though it was a tedious process, Harry didn’t have to think too much while sorting them out. Now, it’s completely different—most of his magic is used for fusion, but due to the infrequency of his maintenance sessions, other irregularities from other usages have piled up and created quite the mess.

It’s fortunate he decided to check up on it before heading to the dungeons. Harry does not want to deal with even more irregularities caused by using offensive magic.

He finishes at around three AM, which is right on time. The next hour is spent quickly double-checking his supplies, taking a quick bath, etcetera. Tom is awake as well, and they go about their preparations in mostly silence. They leave the house at four and then head over to the stables, where one of Hagrid’s hippogriffs is waiting for them.

It’s rather unfortunate, but to be expected—to be able to borrow just one hippogriff already says good things about their reputation at the Adventurer’s Guild. Even though Tom only has one star, his quest success rate is so far one hundred percent, and Harry is a constant customer who always brings in a good haul.

A cut of Tom’s payment and a percentage of Harry’s loot goes to the Guild. Neither of them have ever missed a payment due to a dungeon failure, the loot’s of high quality…it’s only natural that Hagrid has a favorable opinion of them.

Hippogriffs are no Abraxans, but they’re hardy creatures, so neither of them are worried about stamina issues. It appears unbothered by their combined weight, so once they’re out of the gates, Harry commands it to take off.

“You never did say where we were going,” Tom says behind him, leaning close to murmur into his ear. The rush of wind would be too loud otherwise.

“First stop is the Moving Forest,” replies Harry. It’s a little distracting how warm Tom is at his back—he must be rather cold; strange. A quick warming charm should solve it.

“You know its location?”

“Contrary to popular belief, the Moving Forest doesn’t move all too much. Treants don’t like to be uprooted, you know—as long as you know where it was last time, it’s not that hard to find. Your eyes would be able to track it from above.”

“I don’t fly often,” Tom admits.

Harry grins. “That so? Well, you’re going to have to get used to it as my dungeon buddy.”

“Is that a declaration of intent?”

His laughter is drowned out by the wind. It’s been so long since he’s flown; Harry supposes that’s why his heart feels giddy all of a sudden. “I suppose it’s a declaration of _something_.”

* * *

There is a direct correlation between Tom’s bloodlust and their proximity to the center of the forest. If Harry wasn’t so used to bloodthirsty swordsmen, he supposes he might be in a catatonic state right now—Tom is nothing but loud, suppressing, all power and sweat with the flash of his blade.

Apparently, this is the first time Tom’s fought against treants.

He’s like a child, Harry thinks affectionately. He’s like a very dangerous, very capable child. When it comes to new experiences, Tom clearly does not know how to self-moderate, so even though he can go on for longer, Harry calls for them to stop.

“Here’s a good place to rest,” he says, and Tom comes back.

He neither shows disappointment nor relief upon sitting down. Good enough. Harry pulls out his bag while he waits for Tom’s bloodthirst to die down, and for his own magic to recharge.

By now, the sun is just half over the horizon. The sharp rays of light have chased away all the stars, leaving a watered-down blue in the places where the sky peaks through the tree line. There’s not enough light to form spotty mosaics on the ground, but there’s enough to see, so Harry doesn’t make a fire.

“Baked yam?” offers Harry.

Tom blinks, hesitating only a moment before taking one. “I didn’t recall you making any earlier.”

“I bought them while you were at the Adventurer’s Guild,” he replies. “You like these, don’t you?”

After a short pause, Tom unwraps it and takes a bite. “I do.”

Harry mirrors him. The yam is still delightfully warm, and soft and sweet in his mouth as he chews. Still, as delicious as it is, it won’t be enough to fill either of them up, so Harry rummages around in his bag for more food.

“You must find it odd,” Tom remarks.

Harry turns to look at him. He gives nothing away, but Harry knows what he’s talking about. So he says, “Not really. I did expect your tastes to be more…fancy, but everyone has their own idea of comfort food. I’m not one to judge.”

Tom takes another bite out of his yam.

“I like treacle tart, myself,” Harry reveals. “It was the first sweet I ever had. Hot chocolate, too.”

“Yams are easy to steal, easy to hide,” Tom says, “And easy to cook as well. I’d bury it with some coals, and no one would take them away from me.”

He thinks about a young Tom, filching food from someone’s garden. He must’ve been small when he was young, Harry thinks. Tom is tall _now_ , but what about when he was ten? Eleven? The tallest children don’t stay the tallest, and the shortest don’t stay the shortest. Harry used to be tall, too—or at least, he thinks he was, comparing himself to the short scratches on the wooden door frame. But who knows how old those children were when those marks were made.

“Sometimes I go out and catch a vole, or a rabbit,” Harry confesses slowly. “I used to have a friend who would catch them for me, when I was too young to hunt myself. She’d help me skin and cut it up, and we’d roast the pieces over a fire. She died in the war. I miss her a lot.”

“The war… I remember little of it,” says Tom. “We couldn’t go out after dark. There were walls, patrolling soldiers… Everyone was scared, but demons never attacked us.”

“You must’ve lived in one of the capitals, then?”

“Londinium.”

Harry nods. “Britannia’s capital. Yes, the capitals were very safe; much smaller then, but safe. Little else was. Ah, um—”

“Hmm?”

It’s embarrassing that he only now realized it. Harry ducks his head, avoiding Tom’s gaze. “I was just thinking. Um. I don’t know how old you are.”

Tom appears unperturbed. Finished with his yam, he picks up one of the steam buns next and bites into it, chewing and swallowing before he answers. “Oh, is that it? I’m 24.”

“Tw-twenty—wait, you’re _younger_ than me?!”

Tom raises his eyebrow. Alright, fine, so maybe he’s overreacting a little, but Harry swears up and down that he thought Tom was, well, _older_. Forget about how he acts; to have sword skills that refined at the age of 24 is downright prodigious! He’d thought Tom was at least 30.

“I’m 27,” Harry replies to the unasked question. Besides, it’s common courtesy. “Well, 28, now.”

“Your birthday?”

“July 31st,” he answers thoughtlessly.

Tom’s brows furrow. He must be trying to remember that day, and if Harry had done something unusual. Had they even known each other by then? Yes, yes, they had, but not for very long. Harry remembers. It’s like he was in an entirely different world then, living an entirely different life—the transition period between when he was without Tom and when he was with him.

It’s a little disconcerting to realize he’s sectioned off his life like that. But then again, hasn’t he always done it that way? There was when Hedwig was with him, and then without; with Albus, Gellert, and Olympe, and then without; with Cho, and then…the Master of Death.

“We share the same day,” Tom comments, motions casual. “Mine is the 31st of December.”

“After Yule, huh?” Harry muses. “I’ll get you the best present ever. Look forward to it.”

Tom laughs—out of surprise or incredulity, he doesn’t know. “That so? I have high expectations now.”

Harry sends him a cheeky smile. “It’ll knock your socks right off, so I can swipe them back.”

“No return policy,” Tom says immediately. “You’ll have to fight me for them. That’s the only way.”

“Shouldn’t have added the cloud sheep wool…” he mutters. “Is that what this has come down to? A fight to the death over a pair of socks? I thought our friendship was stronger than this.”

“It’s either death or I get to take you out for lunch; choose your wager.”

Harry pretends to think about it. “Hard choice. Is there a third option? One where you get me more cloud wool so I can fuse a blanket _and_ a second pair of socks?”

“Share the blanket and I might consider it. My services don’t come cheap, darling.”

“That’s tough. How about this—I’ll share my custody of the blanket if you get the drinks. And yams—yams are your mandatory entrance fee. Disclaimer: I reserve full rights to back out of this deal if you forget the yams.”

This time when Tom laughs, it’s deep and warm. Harry prefers this laugh to the sharp mockery of the last one. It’s friendlier, yes, but it’s also caused by _Harry_ , and that’s the important part. If these warm feelings could last forever…

What the future brings will inevitably come. For now, all he can do is focus on the present, and ensure that the future Harry has nothing to complain about.

Tom’s bloodlust has long since settled. Harry packs up the rest and stretches. “I’m all good to go. You?”

“Mm. Let’s continue.”

* * *

The boss of the Moving Forest is a giant treant affectionately called, “Mother Treant.” Aside from having a larger root system than most treants, Mother Treant also has a special ability: immunity to fire attacks.

By rotting a spot on its body, Mother Treant is able to temporarily turn that area completely fire resistant. However, it can only do this to one area at a time. By absorbing nutrients from both the ground and other treants, the ‘rot’ is quickly healed afterward, leaving no damage done.

It’s a bitch of an ability to deal with, but useful as an ingredient. Mother Treant is the only provider of Ghost Bark, the material Harry needs. In indigenous tongues, the name roughly translates to ‘Wood That Does Not Burn’—properly treated, it’s more like the wood that doesn’t stop burning, which makes it perfect for rituals.

The problem is taking it down.

 _Last time_ Harry did this, he had the best front line possible, though all the sorcerers were in desperate need of a recharge. The answer was simple, then—take it out with a wide area fire spell. Mother Treant couldn’t rot all of its body; that’d be the same as killing itself. It worked out then, but then and now are clearly two different situations.

For one, they can’t even get past the roots.

Harry frowns, dodging a vine targeted at his heart while he burns the one coming from below. It turns black—immunity—but that gives him the opportunity to burn another incoming root. He looks over at Tom and sees him fairing little better.

They can hash and slash all they like, but there’s no way they’ll outlast the boss in a battle of attrition.

“This isn’t working,” Harry shouts.

“Wide area spell?” Tom shouts back.

“Out of range if I want to cast it away from the roots, not strong enough if I cast a weaker one.”

“I can get you close,” Tom suggests, already weaving his way over.

Harry considers it. The cast time is long, but he can also multicast some defenses… “Risky,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

Tom turns his head to glare at him, simultaneously pruning an incoming vine. “Harry, _no_.”

“What? Why not? Go big or go home, right?”

“ _No_.”

Harry sighs in frustration. “Well, we’re not going to get anywhere if we stick to the perimeter. We’ve got to get closer to its main body—this stuff will just grow right back.”

There’s a pause in their conversation as the vines close in. Roots spring forth at their feet like skeleton hands, clawing and grasping toward the foreign heat source. One clamps around Harry’s arm, squeezing it hard enough to cut off his circulation, but Harry remains calm. He twists his way out of an oncoming assault, slices the offending root right through with a cutting spell, and burns the rest now that its disconnected from the main body.

“Alright?” Tom asks, finally next to him.

“Peachy keen. I can make a path if you’re ready?”

“Do it.”

Harry extends an arm. “ _Ice Breath_.”

An icy wind pours forth from the palm of his hand. It encases all the roots and vines in front of them in a frozen cast, stilling their movement and layering the ground in a thin blanket of frost. For just that single second, there is silence: absolute and indomitable.

Then, the vines move again and their tomb begins to crack.

“Run,” Harry tells Tom. And then he casts again: “ _Shatter_!”

The wintery picture breaks like glass, taking the plant life with it. Tom immediately darts through the stretch of free ground, Harry right behind him as they move toward the center. More roots are already starting to spring out of the ground.

The challenge isn’t over just because they’ve made it to the center. Mother Treant’s trunk is at least a meter thick in diameter. Its deformed mouth gapes wide, shuddering a roar of anger that scatters any monsters still lingering at the fringes of the battle. Neither Harry or Tom are intimidated.

“Duck,” commands Tom. Both of them dodge an incoming branch, swung like a hammer arm to break them apart. Harry moves to the right while Tom goes left.

The bulge of Mother Treant’s roots form a trench of serpents about its main body. They’re basically forced to keep moving, otherwise risk the chance of losing their balance and getting caught by a grasping vine. Harry can’t even fly; in the air is as much danger as on the ground.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Any wounds made by Tom’s rapier is quickly healed by the boss, and Harry’s fire spells meet the same fate. It’s so frustrating and Harry just wants to blow the whole damn thing up, but he can’t even do that.

“Regroup?” Tom shouts.

Harry shouts back an agreement. He changes his route and ducks and weaves toward Tom—they leave the same way they came, with a bit of ice magic and speed.

About three quarters of the way back, another root breaks through the ice and heads straight for Harry’s back. He sends a ball of fire magic at it and expects that to be the end, turning back around to head for the opening.

Tom’s shout of alarm comes too late.

It happens quickly, then—the vine had turned black, as was his expectations, but out from the initial blast comes yet another vine _behind_ it. Harry sees the movement out of the corner of his eye, but it’s too late to react by then. Tom reacts instead.

A hand shoves him forward. There’s the sound of an impact—it pierces cloth, then skin, then flesh in one smooth movement. Harry turns around and sees blood.

“Move!” Tom barks, his right shoulder wet and useless. The head of the vine that’s lodged the entire way through curls with the intent to pull him back into the mess.

Instead of moving, Harry stops. “ _Razor Gale_!” he casts, hand aiming for the body of the vine. It cuts the thick branch clean off, and the vine in Tom’s shoulder stops moving. Of course, there’s a reason why cutting spells aren’t very effective—the branch immediately sprouts with life again, and aims to get back at its prey, but a quick targeted ice spell puts a momentary stop to that.

Meanwhile, Tom doesn’t waste any time. In his left hand, the rapier beats with some heady, unknown magic that makes Harry flinch back. Tom turns around to face the treant and raises his weapon until it’s completely vertical, and then he intones much like how Harry spellcasts: “ _Petrifying Gaze_.”

The mess of vines and roots turn to stone.

That isn’t a figure of speech, either. Unlike ice magic that encapsulates and freezes through from the outside, Harry can sense it; the abrupt still of movement is because wood has literally turned to stone, including the one stuck in Tom’s shoulder. Somehow, being separated from the main body makes this one different, because it quickly disintegrates and leaves a gaping hole where it used to be.

Mother Treant is too far away to be effected. Instead, only the area that Harry had once frozen over is now grey, unmoving rock.

Tom lowers his weapon with a smooth _swish_. He spins on his heel as if nothing is particularly wrong and there _isn’t_ a mess of wet blood and wound on his shoulder, and then gives Harry a look. “You like disobeying orders, don’t you?”

“Well, you weren’t very specific. Technically speaking, I _did_ move.”

Tom scoffs. “ _You_ are very lucky. Now, let’s go.”

Harry doesn’t. “How long does that last?” he asks, waving toward the greyscale picture. It looks like it could’ve come from some horrific dystopia where time has ceased to exist.

“Long enough,” Tom replies cryptically. With his good arm, he tugs Harry along with him.

It doesn’t take him very long to figure out _why_ Tom says he’s lucky. Harry takes a look around, more with his senses than anything, and he realizes it wasn’t just the area directly in front of him, but the area directly in back of Tom has turned to stone as well. Above where he was standing, the treant’s reach from the wood to the leaves is completely frozen, and the budding roots on the ground are still and cold.

…Harry has a lot of questions, but those need to take a seat back and _wait_ because Tom is maybe stupider than him, and that takes a lot of work.

A flick of his finger raises an inclined mound of earth before him. Tom doesn’t need any directions and immediately takes a seat against it, back to Mother Treant.

His wound looks like it hurts, to say the least. Harry gulps and does not want to think about if the puncture was somewhere else, like his stomach or his lungs or his _heart_ —

“You can’t call me stupid anymore,” he whispers, immediately circling around and dropping to his knees to inspect the damage. “This is going to hurt, by the way. And I mean over time. I can’t exactly slow the healing process and expect it _not_ to reopen later.”

“That’s fine,” Tom says, pleasant. He’s always pleasant—too pleasant. Harry’s heart aches. _Tom is really stupid._

“‘Fine,’ he says,” Harry grumbles. He heals the wound anyway, reaching into his magical reserves with no hesitation. It’s gory as it stitches itself together, but Tom is still conscious, which says a lot about how much worse it could be.

Nearly done, Harry begins to feel lightheaded. It’s a side effect of focusing on his magic so heavily—he starts to forget to breathe. Knowing this, Harry takes a big gulp of air, but it doesn’t make him feel better when he tastes rust and blood and sweat in his nose. He feels a little dizzy by the end, but as long as Tom is okay, his head is inconsequential.

To make himself feel a little better—mentally, not physically—Harry cleans up the blood and even repairs Tom’s shirt. _Note to self: make Tom armor_. Why does Tom not have any armor, anyway? Arguably it’s too heavy for his type of movement, but it’s not like lightweight armor doesn’t exist. What gives? Harry chews on that thought instead of Tom’s injury. It’s fixable, at least.

He peeks in the direction of the boss. _Still stone,_ Harry observes. _Huh, guess it does last pretty long._

Tom is looking at him.

“Hi,” Harry says, a little taken aback.

“Hello,” replies Tom. Even caught, he doesn’t stop staring at him.

 _Wait a second—_ “ _You_ ,” Harry begins, poking his (thankfully uninjured) chest, “are…! I don’t even have words to describe you! I mean, _thank you_ , y’know, because, because, well because _that_ , and if you didn’t do that then I would’ve been—but! You getting hurt! That’s not okay!”

Tom, the rude prat, just laughs at him. “You’re welcome,” he says, wickedly pleasant as he pats Harry’s head.

“ _Tom_ ,” Harry says, and he intends it as a whine but it comes out desperate enough to be a beg.

“It was the best option,” Tom replies. “The front line takes the damage while the back line heals. That’s common sense, darling.”

 _Yes,_ it is, but that’s in an ideal world. In reality, how many people can stand in front of someone and take damage like a meat shield? Few, Harry knows. As they say, when the going gets rough, the tough get going. Sometimes, it’s not even about trust—it’s about fighting the instinct to stay safe, to survive.

“Tanking hits with a shield is a lot different than throwing yourself in front of me,” Harry mutters. It comes out too soft to be a proper argument.

“Yes,” Tom says, “But you healed me, didn’t you?”

“How did you know I could? And don’t say I’ve done it once before—you weren’t awake. As far as you know, I could’ve used an item or something.”

Tom shrugs, and Harry notes how his shoulder twinges. That would be the phantom pains. “You’ve healed my wounds before.”

“Cuts, scrapes, shallow injuries, sure,” he argues, stronger this time. “This? It went clean through your shoulder, Tom. You had a _hole_ in your shoulder! It went through your _bone_! You shouldn’t even be able to move it right now!”

“Then why can I?”

Harry pauses. “I…”

“Regrowing bones requires a potion. Everyone knows that,” continues Tom. “You took fifteen minutes to heal an injury that could’ve crippled me. Darling, not even the royal healers can do that.”

“W-well, how would you know…that...” Harry’s back slumps in defeat.

Tom gives him a flat look to show just how unimpressed he is. Then, he sighs. “If you knew I would be hurt, would you still try and cure that brat?”

He’s a little caught off guard by the subject change, but Harry won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He earnestly tries to play the situation out in his mind. If he thought this dungeon was outside Tom’s capabilities, if he knew Tom would get hurt—there were other things he could’ve done, Harry supposes, but ultimately… “Yes,” he says, and tries to avoid Tom’s eyes.

“None of that, darling,” Tom chides as he uses a gentle hand to guide back Harry’s gaze. “Would you still have taken me with you?”

The answer comes immediately. “No.”

Tom nods, neither upset nor pleased. “Your answer should’ve been ‘yes.’”

“Well, then it’s a stupid answer.”

“ _Harry.”_

Harry huffs. “It is. I pay you to come along with me, okay. Injuries are part of the business contract; they should be expected. Sure, part of the job. But! This! It’s different! That was—”

“Not a fatal injury.”

“It was as good as!” Harry snaps. “Your right arm isn’t your dominant one, but who would hire a crippled adventurer? Tom—”

“Am I going to be crippled, Harry?” asks Tom. His gaze is the sort of piercing that Harry hates the most.

“No,” Harry replies, succinct. “But why would you trust me with that?”

“Frankly, it’s not about trust or not,” Tom says, and shrugs again. There’s another twinge that comes with the roll of his shoulders, but it’s smaller this time.

 _Oh_ , Harry thinks. He lowers his eyes. _Oh_ , he thinks still, and that’s all.

“How would you have done this alone?”

He could’ve easily done it if he had the right things, but Harry doesn’t, and didn’t. He thinks, and thinks some more, and comes to the conclusion that it would’ve been possible—difficult, but not impossible.

“Magic, and luck, and improvisation?” continues Tom. “If you knew what was going to happen the moment before it happened, what would you have done?”

“I can’t know that.”

“What would you have wanted to do, then.”

Harry leans forward and hides his face in Tom’s sleeve. “You’ll tell me it’s a bad answer.”

Tom pats his head with his other hand. “That’s because it is,” he tells him. “My answer was the best one, wasn’t it? It would’ve been more difficult to heal yourself, yes?”

Harry hums, because while that’s as good as a ‘yes,’ it can also be as good as a ‘no.’ Tom seems to pull his thoughts right out of his head with little to no effort—he knows just what to say, just how to lead him to confess the things nearest to the core of his heart. It’s downright terrifying, makes him feel raw and skinless, but then Tom patches him up just fine.

“It’s fine to accept my way was the best way,” says Tom. “I’d prefer it if you did. If you don’t accept the roles of our party, then we won’t be able to play to our strengths. In a large party it might be fine, but we’re only two—two can be strong, the strongest, or two can be weak. It requires trust, yes, but also acceptance. Accepting our roles ensures we’re predictable to each other, and predictability is the most necessary strength to have in the worst situations.”

All the things Harry knew before as ideals was just summed up into one reality. “You’re a good leader,” he says, staring up at him with no small amount of wonder. ‘Good,’ of course, is an understatement.

Tom’s lips curl. “I’ve been told so once or twice.”

Harry nudges closer, and Tom welcomes him with open arms. There’s significance in that, full and heartwarming, and it leaves him almost as breathless as his magic had. Harry smothers his face and hopes it hides his flush. Body against body, he can feel the strong definition of Tom’s muscles beneath his clothes; that powerful form easily envelops him, pulls him close and allows him to stay there all safe and sound.

“M’sorry,” he whispers. “Thank you. I’m sorry I have to thank you.”

Tom hums, a comforting sound and rumble against his cheek. “It is quite convenient—your strengths are my weaknesses, and your weaknesses are my strengths, as far as I’ve observed. That makes things very simple. You play to your strengths, and I play to mine. You were originally a front line mage, yes?”

Harry really wants to ask how Tom knows that, but he thinks he hasn’t been quite as discrete as he could’ve been. He turns his head to speak clearly, “Yes, mainly. I switched between front and back a lot.”

“Where are you most comfortable?”

He thinks about it. “I…don’t really know? I usually move according to the situation. They’re both fine to me—it’s just a change to what sort of spellcasting I do. Either is fine.”

Tom nods agreeably. “That’s fine, and suits our numbers well. But, that also means we aren’t using the traditional party structure. I’m an offensive frontliner, as you’ve seen. Therefore, we both play offensive roles, so our loss condition—or disadvantageous state—is being put on defense. When we retreat, that is the worst case.”

Harry understands. “So we need to create a situation where we don’t fall back…”

“Precisely. Before, we were in a situation where our offense was rendered useless. Because we could not attack, we were forced into a defensive position, leading to our loss. This time we need to find a method that allows both of us to deal damage.”

It makes sense. In a front line-back line format, only one half of the party would attack Mother Treant. They don’t fit that description, so both of them have to play offense and have that offense land, else they lose. Conceptually, it’s easy enough to understand, but to actually do it—

Harry sits up. “I’ve got an idea.” He sends a significant look to Tom’s other side, where his rapier lies. Then, with proper politeness, he asks, “Do you trust me with your weapon?”

Tom responds. “I trust you with The Basilisk,” he says, equally serious.

“I vow not to betray your trust.”

The short ceremony complete, The Basilisk glows with a soft mysterious light. When Tom places his bonded weapon in Harry’s hands, Harry remains unharmed. On both sides, their trust holds true.

“ _Enchant: Fire_ ,” Harry casts. The thin blade of the rapier glows a metallic gradient of red at the fuller to white at the point. “It’s temporary, but the cast is quick and the duration isn’t too bad. I can recast in a pinch.”

Tom, eyes sharper than his blade, understands immediately. “Strike with fire on two opposing sides, and the treant can’t nullify both of our attacks.”

“Yes,” Harry says, nodding. “If we stick too close together, it can simply expand the area that it resists, but if we’re far enough apart, it can’t block two places at one time. The only caveat is that we have to time it perfectly, otherwise it’ll recover in time to block the other side.”

“Do you think that’s an issue?”

Harry frowns, and then says, “No. We should both be capable enough. It’s fine if we fail a few times, too, as long as we don’t get knocked back.”

“Maintaining a rhythm—yes, that should work,” Tom pauses, “Your magic?”

Harry winces. “Give me a few mana potions’ time and I’ll be good to go.”

He does. As Harry recovers with the boost of the potions, Tom flexes and rolls his healed shoulder to get used to the pain. He has the same range of motion as before the injury, and the pain is constant instead of simply acting up when he moves it. Still, instead of telling him this, Harry lets him figure it out for himself.

“Do you need something to numb it for the fight?” Harry asks, straightforward.

“I can manage,” replies Tom. “I dislike being under the influence of something.”

That’s not an odd stance among adventurers, so Harry nods and does a quick check of all his vitals before standing. “I’m good to go,” he says, once again thankful for his meditation session prior to leaving.

Tom stands as well. “Then let’s begin.”

* * *

Five days can pass quickly when the travelers are as experienced as Tom and Harry. Instead of stopping at towns for the night, they camp outside however far they get to the next dungeon. Harry’s already mapped their path to be the shortest possible, so it doesn’t take much effort. They hunt game and gather edibles from the forests, roast it over a magic-made fire or slow cook it into a stew.

The ingredients Harry actually needs are not that many, they’re just spread among several different dungeons. He has the rest already in stock at home.

On the sixth day, they arrive back at Hogwarts at eight in the morning. The hippogriff, they’ve been rewarding with choice meats and plenty of pats; Harry urges Tom to leave in a good word with Hagrid anyway.

Fortunately, it’s a Thursday, so after a quick check on Colin and Dennis—as well as a retrieval of Hedwig’s key—Harry spends the rest of the day repairing the damages done to his magic as well as prepping the necessary materials.

Mana potions are an unfortunately unavoidable part of an adventuring sorcerer’s life. The rapid recovery they induce results in a messy core, but without it, a sorcerer would be forced to find a safe place and recover far too often. Harry already benefits from a fairly large core; those with a smaller amount of magic are forced to depend on potions.

He technically doesn’t have to meditate now, but considering he’s about to go fight off dragon pox…better safe than sorry.

As far as mental exhaustion goes, Harry is a tad weathered, but this isn’t the most stressful situation he’s been in. It doesn’t even reach his top ten. Five straight days of traveling? At least he’s able to recover in between, and at least he had Tom with him. It definitely doesn’t beat holding off an army of dementors for 24 hours—that Raczidian ordeal was a mess. Harry doesn’t even want to think about it.

On the seventh day, Harry arrives at the Creevey’s house bright and early, shoulder-to-shoulder with Tom. He’s clearly still uncomfortable about this, forced to stand outside and wait, but Harry is confident. If he can’t deal with a little dragon pox, then he might as well lose all rights to his magic. What good were his teachers if he learned nothing from them? He can just imagine it: Albus shaking his head in disappointment above his grave, Gellert spitting on it and disowning him, Olympe’s evil eye—the look she gives whenever he’s failed to do something he should’ve been able to do…

And all the ghosts of his past, gathering around in a tight ring about his coffin. _Why?_ they’d ask. _How could you fail? We died for you, Harry. We sacrificed our lives so you could live on! If you can’t save one single boy, what good are you? Our deaths were in vain…our trust, in vain…_

 _Well, Potter, we can’t have that, can we?_ Harry thinks. It’s meant to be a little sarcastic in his head, but it’s true—so true. If he can’t do _just this_ with his magic, his magic blessed by Circe, then what good is he? He’s been born to do magic, he knows. It’s in his blood, his body—everything that he is can be summed up in one word: _magic_. If he can’t even do that…

But. _But_. Harry _can_ do it, so he will.

The room feels like its breathing. The contagion’s tendrils are cautious about him; they’re biding their time, know he’s in their territory now. They can sense, surely, Harry’s intent to vanquish them, but it won’t be so easy. They’ll put up a fight, and that’s fine, because Harry’s come prepared for one.

Harvested from the Mother Treant, the Ghost Bark rests in a small mortar made of golem stone. Within it is also the remains of various ground up spices and herbs, ingredients to a remedy passed down through oral tradition rather than an almanac or grimoire. Their scent is curious, and comforting. It reminds Harry of another time, a time when he was much smaller and an old woman sat beside him.

They could not speak the same language, Harry remembers, but they did not need to. Magic was their commonality, and from it, she read the pages of his soul, and he hers.

Rather than a building made of wood, they were in a tent made of animal hide. Albus laid motionless on a handmade mat before them, his hand shriveled up and black… Or another time, when Harry was older and the woman was instead an old man, and the patient was a mother with green skin and pockmarked skin—her children outside, silencing their tears with raw hope and prayer to a pagan god.

He remembers them, and their magic, and their calloused hands and rhythmic voice. The ghosts of his past leave behind his mentors long gone, and Harry remembers.

“First, light the fire, and do not let it go out…” he murmurs, mundane words becoming a chant.

The Ghost Bark lights with a single flame. The contagion shrieks in anger.

“Scatter the holly leaves: for here is Magic’s, in whatever form Magic deigns theirs…”

“A sacrifice to appease the gods, for we heal with blind eyes…”

“To the fire, every third carnation petal, for even our foes may be friends in another life…”

For three days and three nights, the ritual continues. The dragon pox doesn’t stand a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY I know I said 3 parts, but just look at this chapter length. LOOK AT IT. ~6k words? That's just ridiculous for this 'verse, so I'm ending it here and you can expect the final resolution in the NEXT chapter (no action there, just tying up some loose ends). 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this part! I personally did; that character deVELoPMENT THoooOOOoooo aaaay! And the background info??? I hope I've given you all a lot to munch on :P
> 
> Also, about the socks: this is a reference to the last installment, _gamble on this_ , where Harry offers to make Tom new socks after his was destroyed by a will-o-wisp. He ends up fusing a pair not only with salamander scales, but also with cloud sheep wool.........the result is a fluffy, well-insulated, comfy-as-fuck pair of socks. Needless to say, Tom _loves_ them.
> 
> Just finished the last of my finals today, but some personal mattters have popped up. I wanted to at least get an update out there for y'all, especially because this is so stupid long (WHYY????!!!) Therefore.....I can't give you an ETA. See you when I see you!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: hand-wavy math and legal stuff

Coming back to Hedwig’s, Harry doesn’t really expect much. His wards tell him immediately that nothing has been stolen—that’s a good sign—but whether it’s spotless or a mess, he’s resigned to anything. Letting a sixteen-year-old boy take care of a shop for five days is not going to give him perfect results, and Harry’s okay with that.

Tom is the first one to speak. “Are you sure you gave him the right key?”

“Tom, you got in with this key.”

“Oh, is that why you gave it to me? I picked the lock.”

Harry shoots him a dirty look. “ _Tom_!”

Burglar-like shenanigans aside, Harry can’t really blame his reaction. The shop is as clean as any other day, except it isn’t any other day. Harry hasn’t been in this shop for almost a week and it looks like his magic’s swept through it. He walks over to a random table and takes a swipe with his finger—no dust, period. What gives?

“I did not write up a cleaning system in that ward stone,” he declares. “For the record, you know.”

Tom, who is also playing the part of inspector, sweeps an eye over the current wares. “Perhaps he never opened up shop.”

Harry migrates over to the counter. “The books say differently. Or, well, the register.”

“Business?”

“Lackluster,” he admits, “But he tried. Filled all the orders, at least, which I consider the important part.”

Tom hums. “You might’ve created a monster. Truly brilliant bit of emotional manipulation. I couldn’t have done better myself.”

“ _Excuse me_. What?”

“That was what you were doing, yes? Asking me to play along; the kindness, the empathetic smile, the confident heroic posture, the close call, the _forgiveness_ ,” Tom drawls, ticking them off his fingers as he goes. “Well played. Kid looked at you like you were his savior. Imagine what he’ll look like when you save his brother. Ever applied for godhood, darling?”

Harry pauses. He distracts himself with the cash register instead, and starts to move some other things around under the excuse that they aren’t where he likes them. Tom is wrong; his primary reason for helping Colin isn’t for…isn’t for whatever he’s saying it’s for. But at the same time, he can’t claim ignorance, either.

“People react to kindness with kindness,” he finally says. “That’s all.”

“And you’ve got quite a bit of experience with that? Accepting kindness?”

Harry bristles at the phrasing. “I’m not a cruel person, Tom. If someone needs help, I’ll help them. That’s _all_.”

Tom sighs and walks over, placing a hand on his. “I’m not accusing you of anything,” he murmurs. “It’s just curiosity. You seem to have experience around helpless people. And considering how you found me…”

“It was the nature of the jobs I took.”

Tom lets the subject drop. “Well, regardless, I suppose you aren’t going to get rid of him now, are you?”

Harry shrugs. “He passed. ‘With flying colors’ is questionable, but he definitely passed. And don’t tell me you aren’t a little eager—the more time I have out of the shop, the more you get paid.”

“The more time I get to spend with you, you mean.”

Harry clicks his tongue. “Your paycheck won’t change with a little flattery.”

Tom smiles. “For you, my lip service is independent of my wallet. I’m going to the Guild to catch up on what we missed; don’t ruin someone’s plans without me.”

“Get some rest while you’re at it,” Harry tells him. “Your shoulder’s still hurting, isn’t it? And I’m sure your muscles aren’t agreeing with you right now. I’ll head to the Creeveys tomorrow. Just go sleep.”

“Will _you_ be sleeping?”

“ _I_ ,” Harry says, “will be making sure my magic doesn’t kill me later. That’s as good as sleep in my book. Now, shoo.”

* * *

Fighting a last stage dragon pox contagion _alone_ is not Harry’s idea of a good time, but he’s done it. Dennis sleeps peacefully now, his green skin returning to a not-so-healthy pale shade, but it’s an improvement. The pockmarks have faded throughout the night, and his breathing is normal as opposed to the raspy puffs of before.

Instead of purging the room with his magic, Harry lights some of his remaining incense instead. He’ll instruct Colin to scatter them throughout the house later—it’s a better solution than further straining his magic reserves. Then he makes to leave, door open and exit prepared.

A dizzy spell hits him like a rampaging kangaroo. It seriously feels like he just got punched in the gut while his vision spins. There’s a keening pulse ringing in his ears and the world is a blurry mess—the wall is only solid when he leans his weight against it, and Harry shuts his eyes until the terrible moment is over.

“Sleep is for the weak,” he mutters, lacking any degree of serious inflection at all.

It gets a little worse when he has to extend his magic to find Tom—because for one it’s easier to find Tom, and for two, where Tom is, Colin will be (as they planned)—but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Apparently, it’s early enough that they’ve already left for Hedwig’s, because they’re not anywhere on the Creevey property.

Harry sighs. “Merlin have mercy,” he grumbles. The knowledge that he’ll have to walk the whole way back is honestly something he’d rather not know, but there’s a conversation he has to have and it’s not like he has his cloak with him— _flying_ , yes, he’d rather do that. Why would anyone ever walk anywhere, his body complains.

Alas, the things that must be done, must be done. Harry pushes off from the wall, but doesn’t expect the wave of weakness that hits him next. He stumbles—can’t find the wall again, _where’s the wall_?—and the ground, or what he thinks is the ground, starts looking awfully close.

Someone is talking to him. There’s a warm hand on his shoulder, and Harry flinches back because it’s not a hand he knows. The hand is more careful the next time, gentle, and then he feels his body being picked up. It’s too much though—his head weighs the mass of a planet, and it feels like his brain is swinging on a pendulum with how slow and heavy the world spins.

It’s embarrassing, but Harry passes out. He wishes his body would’ve made him vomit instead—the Master of Death, fainting from exhaustion? Better not let his enemies hear about that one.

* * *

When Harry comes to, it’s to the smell of one of his incense sticks thick in his nostrils. He turns his head toward the bedside— _ow, nice bad life decision, Potter_ —and indeed, there one is. He must be in the Creevey household still, and Tom must be somewhere, because Harry only remembers giving explicit instructions to one person so far…

“Awake, sir?”

Harry blinks. Positioned a bit lower than his line of vision sits a rather big man with an ovular face and comparatively smaller beady eyes. His beard is not so long as Albus’, but it’s scratchy and dried blond. There’s grey hair mixed in with his receding hairline, like life had pulled and tugged until it was finally satisfied and then just…left.

There’s something familiar about him that he can’t place, and then a moment later, Harry gets it.

“Mr. Creevey,” he says, or tries to say. His voice comes out rough and embarrassing.

The man smiles at him, and then gives him a glass of water. Harry chugs it down like a potion.

“Yes. Mr. Potter, I presume?”

“That would be me,” he replies. “I fainted in your hallway, didn’t I?”

“You fainted in my hallway.”

Harry rubs the back of his neck, tickling the hair there just as his cheeks tickle pink. “Well, it was unintentional. Sorry about that. Not my best first impression, I have to say.”

“Quite the opposite,” says Mr. Creevey. “You saved my son’s life, even after what my other son did... Colin told me a few days ago, and by then you were already tending to Dennis. I don’t think there’s any better first impression than that, and I profusely apologize for my son’s actions, as well as thank you for your kindness.”

The praise is genuine—Harry can tell by how conflicted the man looks, like he’s thankful, but confused, but grateful, but wary of the reasons for his thanks. Yeah, Harry’s been there before. He’s just started taking these things as pleasant surprises, and when the surprises go wrong, then they’re unfortunate mishaps. It gives him a lot less stress that way.

“Yes, well,” Harry begins, coughing like it’ll make this situation any less embarrassing. Being caught in a dead faint is—and, and, _and_ he’s sure he has terrible bedhead right now. He always does. It’s his magic’s one single rebellion, like Merlin’s ghost had just arbitrarily decided as he was born, ‘Him. Yes, him. Curse his hair to be messy, _forever_. Why, you say? Well, why not. Have to spend my ghostly curses on someone, don’t I?’

…Harry actually prepared a script for this, and nothing’s going as planned. _Thanks, me_ , he thinks, because exercising target practice on himself is a good failsafe. _The good ‘ol Harry luck never fails to disappoint, except when it does. Always._

“I. Um. On the topic of your son—not, not Colin; I mean Dennis, just so we’re clear—the dragon pox is gone, but I do have some, well, suggestions—recommendations—prescriptions—probably not optional, actually, and. Dear Merlin, I’m terribly sorry, but would you give me a moment?”

Mr. Creevey, looking as amused as he is worried, waves a hand in understanding and pointedly looks away.

Harry immediately runs a hand through his hair. Yep, bedhead—but that’s fine, at least he knows now. Right; face—agh, he definitely looks like the living dead right now. Do people trust people who look like the living dead? The Master of Death never really had a face, and when Harry was using a face, it was usually someone else’s. Well, most healers look at least a little dead after a few hours, so maybe he’s not that bad in comparison?

He coughs once, muffling it with a fist. “Okay, alright. Let’s start over. Mr. Creevey, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Harry Potter, owner of Hedwig’s General Store.”

Mr. Creevey gives a firm shake to his outstretched hand. It’s almost comical the difference in their hand sizes—though they’re both rough with calluses, Harry’s is like a child’s in comparison. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter. I’m Hugh Creevey, Colin and Dennis’ father, and in your debt for the huge service you’ve done my family.”

There is a note of resigned in his thanks, Harry realizes. He supposes that isn’t surprising. Scammed once, and forced to live in debt with the fact his youngest son is dying while his beloved wife is dead by the same disease, unable to do much for his eldest son…that sort of experience isn’t exactly a breeding ground for hope.

“Please, Mr. Creevey,” Harry begins with his customer-greeting smile, “I was only doing what I thought was right. We can discuss the details of that later, once my partner returns—a Mr. Gaunt? I think you might have already met him.”

Mr. Creevey nods, gaze flickering in the direction of the incense. “The adventurer. Yes, I have. He stopped by during lunch and gave me a few instructions, but did not say anything else before leaving. He’s accompanying my son at the moment. I believe they’re at your shop…?”

“Yes, that would be him. Terribly sorry, but what time is it?”

“A little past five in the evening,” Mr. Creevey replies politely. “Seeing as it’s near dinner, I came in to check on you. You looked like you needed your rest.”

Harry gives him a wry smile. “Unfortunately, yes. Thank you for lending me your lodging.”

“Mr. Potter, considering what miracle you’ve performed today, it is certainly not a problem.”

“Yes. Well. I am unsure how much Colin or Tom told you, but I was merely the carrier pigeon,” Harry says. There is no hesitation when he adds, “My potions supplier truly outdid themselves. If there is anyone to thank, it is them. Outstanding piece of work, that cure. Now, after administering the potions, they did prescribe additional supplements in order to ensure young Dennis’ smooth recuperation.”

“Oh,” Mr. Creevey starts, “Of…course. That is very generous of the both of you—but, the matter of payment…”

“Hedwig’s primary goal is a fair price for everyone,” Harry replies firmly. “I am aware of your financial situation, and we may negotiate the payment at a later date with my partner. For now, Dennis’ health is paramount—the supplement potions are already made, you see, and no collateral will be required. Their immediate administration to ensure his survival is more important than any gold or coin…is the shared opinion of I and my potions supplier.”

A little baffled, it takes him a moment before Mr. Creevey finally says, “I…agree; if you’ve already discussed the matter, then I’m… Mr. Potter, I’ll have to thank you for your goodwill—”

Harry smiles and raises a hand to stop him. “We are both citizens of Scotia, and both residents of Gryffindor. As far as I’m concerned, you are as good as my neighbor, and you are very welcome, Mr. Creevey. Now, the matter of the supplemental potions—”

Fortunately, his bag is still present at his hip. Harry pulls out two vials, of which he has many more, and says, “One of these in the morning, and one of these in the evening before he goes to sleep, for two weeks minimum. I’ll need to check back and ensure he’s recovering nicely, and we can adjust the length then, as well as the second dosage.”

“Uh, oh, of course—that is, well, that is extremely generous of you.”

“Dennis is officially my—and Hedwig’s potions supplier—patient. Phrased differently, I take the satisfaction of my customers very seriously,” says Harry. “A final stage dragon pox is no laughing matter. My partner predicted he perhaps only had two weeks left. Naturally, an immediate cure is not enough, hence the supplements. They’ll help recover his weakened magic core, as well as assist his body after so much bedrest. If he follows my potions supplier’s recommendations, he could be back to full health in a couple months.”

Mr. Creevey blinks. “Only a couple months?” he asks incredulously.

“Tentative estimate,” replies Harry. “I can give a better prediction after two weeks. Your son benefits from a small magic core and a strong will, but his body is frail. I do not think repairing his magic core will be the issue, then, but his physical health. A sorcerer’s immune system is usually stronger because of their magic, but during this time when his magic is near nonexistent, he’ll be vulnerable to other illnesses—almost especially so. The supplements should help in that respect.”

“You…are very knowledgeable, Mr. Potter.”

Harry waves it off as if it’s a comment he hears often. “Mundane as I may be, I do carry several licenses to sell some level A and B remedies. The tests are quite rigorous. It is unfortunate that I am not licensed to sell the standard dragon pox cure…I am still studying for it, you see—one of the reasons I came to Hogwarts. Ah, if only I could have a conversation with King Dumbledore! I’m sure His Majesty’s mind is quite the treasure trove of genius.” He prattles on a bit longer about the King’s virtues.

Finally, Harry says, “So, I hope we can keep this matter a secret? A business selling a cure without a license is, as you know, a criminal action, and I would not want either of us to be prosecuted for saving a life…”

And Mr. Creevey, thoroughly confounded with a mix of wonder, agrees.

* * *

Under the (very real) excuse that Harry needs his rest before any discussion can take place, Tom manages to wrangle both of them back to Hedwig’s without compromising Harry’s dignity…well, too much. He ends up carrying him on his back half the way there.

“You,” Tom begins, “Are going to sleep in this bed for the next twelve hours _at least_ before I let you touch a single piece of parchment.”

“But _Tom_ ,” Harry mumbles, already half asleep, “Wha’ ‘bout the _plan_?”

“Everything can wait until you’re awake,” he replies. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? The chances that whoever’s scheming is taking constant tabs is unlikely. I watched over that brat for three days and didn’t see anyone following him. And before you ask, yes, I set up the protections you asked me to.”

“You’re the best,” Harry slurs.

“I know. Don’t worry about waking up tomorrow—I’ll handle the shop.”

“ _Th’ best_ ,” Harry insists, even as he’s placed down on the bed and tucked in. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” is all Tom says.

* * *

When next he’s out and about, Harry is finally in tip-top shape. He doesn’t know how he can thank Tom enough, doesn’t know how he can describe how thankful he is. He hopes Tom knows, but maybe it’s impossible for Tom to know it all. Harry just hopes there’ll be more opportunities in the future to show him.

After all, for all the things that make Tom an exasperating, unlikable person, there’s a bullet point more that endears him to Harry’s heart. They’re not virtues, because Tom is definitely not a virtuous person—few bloodthirsty swordsmen are—but. But. If his recovery-addled head can debate on the merits of Tom Riddle’s person, that’s proof enough that Harry likes him, likes a little too much that unlikeable man.

“You’re set on this,” Tom states, eyes leaving the written document to check for Harry’s confirmation.

“I did write it,” Harry tells him.

“Harry.”

Harry smiles. “I know you don’t like it, but trust me on this one, yeah? I see potential in him, and a great—albiet frustrating—man once told me to never underestimate the value of potential. Erm, perhaps in another set of words, but that was the gist of it.”

Tom continues to eye him before finally lowering the contract. “Potential,” he drawls, “and Colin Creevey hardly sound like they belong in the same sentence.”

Savage even when said Colin Creevey isn’t even here, Harry thinks with a sigh. _Rude_ , he notes as another bullet point, _is Tom Riddle’s aesthetic._

“You just thought something insulting about me,” declares Tom. “You’re lucky we’re friends, else I’d take offense to that.”

“What gave it away? My disappointed face or the way I was about to say, _‘Tom_ , _that was rude_ ’?”

“Don’t be absurd. It’s obviously because I’m a mind reader.”

Harry snorts. “It honestly wouldn’t surprise me if you were. Back on topic, it’s okay, right? The contract? It’s been awhile since I’ve had to write one. I hate legalese. Tried to make it as straightforward as possible, but _loopholes_ , ugh. Writing is not my forte.”

“You ramble a lot,” Tom agrees. And then at Harry’s look, adds, “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s cute. The contract, on the other hand, I would prefer to burn and scatter the ashes out to sea, but context aside, I _suppose_ it’s passable. Barely.”

 _It’s cute, it’s cute, it’s cute_ plays on repeat in Harry’s head. _Huh_ , he thinks in some other section of his mind. _Huh_. He hasn’t been called cute since—since—well, since he was a kid, he supposes. Cute is flowers and foals and a child’s smile. Cute is the fluster of innocence and the shy grip of a hand. Cute is reserved for animals and naiveté and quirks lacking consequence. It’s a temporary sort of thing, and not Harry.

“You’re so rude,” he says instead. “Barely passable; is that a gold star in Tom-speak? You have to translate sometimes, you know—we aren’t all literate in our friend’s languages.”

Tom smiles at him and that should be illegal, okay. If he ever makes a contract with Tom, Harry will put that in the fine print.

“Would you prefer I praise you? I can do that, too—”

“ _Nope_ , no, no way, I’m good!” There’s no way in hell Harry wants to give him more opportunities to tease him. It’s bad enough that he can’t stop thinking about Tom’s stupid ‘it’s cute’ comment. “Immersion accelerates learning, right? I’ll get it eventually. Strive for fluency and all that.”

Fortunately, Tom decides to take pity on him and stop while he’s (a little, _only a little_ , damn it) ahead. “If you need me to repeat anything for you, feel free to ask then. Here—if this is the final draft, we might as well go put on your little play now.”

Harry takes back his contract. “Yeah, we’re good. I just need to grab the next batch of supplements.”

“Go on, then. You’ve kept me in suspense for several days already—I can wait a few more minutes.”

Harry does so. They make it to the Creevey’s in record time—probably because this time he’s not on the brink of fainting, _again_. He’s tempted to wrinkle his nose, but that’ll ruin his character—Tom is doing his part, all stoic bodyguard beside him, so Harry must play out his own.

They greet the father and son duo in a complementary contrast.

“Mr. Creevey, Colin,” Harry says, smiling pleasantly with his friendly-and-competent-shop-owner smile. “I hope I’m not late.”

Tom sticks to Harry like glue and glares in lieu of words.

“No, not at all,” Mr. Creevey replies. A bit of that baffled, enchanted look from their last meeting still remains. “Please sit. Would you like something to drink?”

“Just water for my partner and I, thanks,” Harry beams. He doesn’t doubt they have little in the way of refreshments, but it would be rude not to offer, and for them, a little insulting not to accept.

Colin goes to fetch the water. He is clearly cowed before his father—not necessarily scared, but meek and subdued in an unfamiliar manner compared to his persona at Hedwig’s. Harry surmises he’d given his father the whole story, leaving nothing out as the truth should be, and was properly scolded, lectured, reprimanded, or whichever consequence the Creevey patriarch had in mind.

Despite Tom being first to reach his seat by all of a couple seconds, he only sits after Harry. It’s a grand show they put on, Harry thinks, all put together by the little things. Tom is normally a good actor so it shouldn’t be anything impressive, but Harry allows himself a moment of admiration anyway.

It helps that Tom has his rapier at his hip today, while Harry is unarmed. They are quite the pair—knowledge and strength, businessman and adventurer, mercy and intolerance under one name. It’s all wrong, of course, crafted through the loosest grains of truth, but people like what they can guess. It’s like a little victory over figuring out a mystery, and that confidence makes people so, so easy. Nothing against the Creeveys, but Harry is not in a position to answer probing questions.

Harry smiles. “Thank you, Colin,” he says, and makes a show of immediately taking a sip. Tom does not even glance at his glass.

First thing’s first. “How is Dennis?” asks Harry.

“Doing much better,” Mr. Creevey replies. “He is asleep now, still on bedrest, but much better—much better. Lucid, when he wakes, and speaks. Mr. Potter…I really cannot thank you enough—”

“And you are certainly welcome,” says Harry. “I’m glad he’s doing better. I’ve brought more supplements, as well—the same potions with the same prescriptions: one in the morning, one at night. May Circe bless his continued improvement.”

The line is echoed. Harry continues to stretch his control over the meeting. “Colin, how’ve you been? I know these past few days have been trying for you.”

Colin starts. “Oh, um, yes, I’ve been fine. Thank you for asking, sir.”

“On the topic of my son’s actions…” Mr. Creevey trails off.

“I’m sincerely sorry for my actions,” says Colin, and though it appears scripted, Harry can see the honesty in his eyes. It builds up into a glassy sheen of close-but-not-quite tears, which don’t fall but make him look a pitiful sight. “My intention was never to disrespect your business, but I understand that was the result. I stole from you—there is no other way to put it—and I know an apology isn’t enough. Whatever consequence there is…I’m prepared for it.”

This part requires a degree of delicacy. Harry sighs, just a soft exhalation of breath that brings softness to his expression. Tom is immutable, and Harry is the river that flows unbothered through his mountain.

“Do you love Hedwig’s?” he asks, gentle as if Colin was a small animal instead of a human boy.

“With all my heart and more,” Colin admits. Mr. Creevey looks surprised. He turns a little to his father, speaking to all of them now. “It was different than working on the farm with you, pa. There were so many different people from all walks of life, and so many new things. Mr. Potter taught me himself…he gave me a chance when no one else did. From the bottom of my heart, I’m thankful.”

Harry smiles. “I’m also thankful,” he tells him, swiping the floor from under Mr. Creevey’s feet once more. “When I came back to the shop, did you know what I saw? Everything was neat and tidy, not a thing out of place, and spotless to boot. I checked the inventory room and all the new shipments were organized and marked. All orders filled. The equipment was shined. The windows were cleaned. Not a knut was misplaced in the register—everything was exactly as I left it. That was not what I expected after five days of leave.”

Colin flushes and ducks his head at the praise. “Thank you, sir…” he mumbles.

But even more incredulous is Mr. Creevey. “My son told me what he had to do,” he begins, “And I…I admit, I haven’t been there for him as much as I should’ve been. With the ranch, and Dennis…I haven’t been a very good father. When he told me he looked after your shop, I was dubious. Tell me, please, did he really do all of that?”

Harry sits up. “Oh yes,” he answers. “You see, though Hedwig’s is new, I’ve recently invested all my savings into warding her up. Security, you know? Not to brag, but they _are_ high quality wards. Colin was the only one I allowed access before and after shop hours during the days I was gone, and the only one who could touch the cash register. Perhaps it’s a little forward of me to say, especially in light of recent events…but I truly think you raised a good son. A little muddled, but that is simply his age. I believe he’s got potential for a good head on his shoulders.”

Tom, finally, cuts in. “I observed him for the three days Harry was administering the cure,” he states, and then continues grudgingly with, “He was…passable. Inexperienced, but passable. He has a lot of passion. Too much.”

Harry laughs at him. “Really? Because when I got back, I vaguely remember you giving me a five-star review—”

Tom glares. “I did no such thing.”

“Hmmm, are you saying it was a dream, then?”

“You were exhausted and in dire need of rest,” is Tom’s reply. “Hallucinations are a probable cause.”

Harry quirks his lips, fondness one half truth and one half act. “If you say so.”

Mr. Creevey is the definition of baffled. “I…”

“Thank you, Colin,” Harry interrupts, though not unkindly. “Hedwig’s is my…well, she’s my livelihood. She’s everything to me, and you took care of her when I needed you to. I could see that you love her, you know—you tried, inexperienced as you were, and it was an admirable job. Thanks.”

Colin sniffs. The tears he’d previously held at bay come back with a vengeance. “Thank you, sir,” he says, voice cracking a little. “I wanted…I wanted to do good. Regardless of the past and future, I just wanted…”

“I understand. And that’s why I’m thanking you,” Harry tells him. “Now, what do you say in return?”

Somehow, through tears and sniffles, Colin manages to say, “You’re welcome.”

Harry beams at him. “I forgive you.”

This throws everyone off. Tom gives him a scolding, if not exasperated, look while the Creeveys stare at him with wide eyes. Harry is deeply satisfied with this build up. Now it’s time for the fun part.

“Colin, I genuinely enjoyed the time you were my employee. You were a quick learner, my customers loved you, you never complained once and you took criticism like a champ. Now, after I’ve seen proof of your care toward Hedwig’s, I’ve come to this resolution that will hopefully satisfy all parties involved.”

After saying that, Harry turns to Mr. Creevey and continues. “Hedwig’s is a fair business. Tom and I strive for customer satisfaction, and so if you are displeased or have any concerns about the proposal I put forth, please speak freely. I am open to negotiation—and this goes for you as well, Colin, being that this is about you.”

Taking the cue, Tom pulls out three copies of the contract from before and passes them out. The pause in conversation acts like a veil—both Creeveys are too confounded to put in a word, but the allotted time is given anyway.

The meeting is now simply a scene in his play, whether the actors know their parts or not. Harry picks right back up. “Theft is a serious matter, especially a hefty sum of fifty galleons. It cannot go unpunished. I do understand there was no ill will behind the act, but Hedwig’s is a business. I cannot afford a loss of fifty galleons. As such, I believe this matter can be handled between us without involving court nor state. We may treat this as a transaction of sorts.”

“This is…a job contract?” Mr. Creevey asks.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Harry says. “Previously, Colin was employed at Hedwig’s General Store as a part-time worker, with a starting wage of thirteen sickles per hour. To clarify, he was Hedwig’s _only_ worker. Tom, though he does hold share in the business, is primarily an adventurer, and I as the owner worked full hours on site. Firing him would only cause me more problems in the future, especially with Hedwig’s rising popularity.

“The time it would take to find, hire, and train a new employee would be costly. As such, this is my offer: Colin will be hired as a permanent full-time employee. His work will also go toward paying off the fifty galleons, five sickles, and five knuts owed to my business. However, I understand your family would have trouble if Colin came home without pay, so I have outlined a suggested plan in the contract. Negotiable, of course.

“At the starting wage of thirteen sickles per hour, his previous part-time hours would go toward his debt of fifty galleons, five sickles, and five knuts. The additional hours taken on as a full-time employee would _not_ go toward the debt—i.e., it will be paid to him on the standard pay cycle. For the duration of his debt, the wage will be thirteen sickles per hour, and after the debt is paid, we may go into negotiations for a full-time wage depending on his performance.

“As outlined, during this time Colin will be considered a full-time employee of Hedwig’s. This includes all benefits outlined in the attached full-time contract. Note that this transaction is separate from the matter of your other son, Dennis—potions and check-ups will be given regardless of the fifty galleon debt, and regardless of whether or not Colin remains an employee of Hedwig’s.”

“Mr. Potter,” Mr. Creevey interrupts, “If you think this is a satisfactory resolution to Colin’s matter…I will leave the decision up to Colin. It is already very generous of you. What of the payment for the dragon pox cure?”

“Ah yes, that is the second part of the contract,” Harry replies, unperturbed. He waits for the sound of flipping paper to stop before continuing. “We discussed this before, but for Colin’s benefit, I will repeat: the situation your family was put in was unacceptable, and this is a stance held between me, Mr. Gaunt, _and_ my potions supplier. You should not have been turned away by the imperial doctors. I know that the Department of Magical Malady and Remedy take these matters very seriously, and this is sheer incompetence from the Department of Wellness and Health Services.

“As such, I feel it is my duty as a citizen of Scotia and fellow resident of Hogwarts to take your case up to the imperial judges—His Majesty himself, if I must. The imperial doctors have an obligation to at least _diagnose_ the patient in cases where a level C magical cure is required, which dragon pox certainly meets. They turned you away without even looking at Dennis, and that is unacceptable. It endangered not only the wellbeing of your family, but also that of the state and public.

“This is a case you most certainly have a solid chance at winning. You will undoubtedly be compensated. Therefore, this is my proposal: the payment of the nonstandard dragon pox cure administered to Dennis Creevey will be paid in full by the state, if you allow me to propose your case, and one hundred percent of the compensation allotted to the Creevey family will be yours.

“Now, in the case that they compensate _me_ , for doing my citizen-ly duty...well, that is up to the state’s discretion, and I believe will be improper to discuss, especially as Hedwig’s General Store is not a licensed seller of the standard dragon pox cure. Curiously enough, we also do not advertise a nonstandard dragon pox cure, which the state will surely take into consideration, and I hope you, too will understand…”

Mr. Creevey, quick on the uptake, immediately nods. “Of course.”

Harry smiles. “Excellent. Well, I believe that finishes those matters. I’ll give you some time to think about it, unless you have some immediate concerns? You may discuss among yourselves, and Dennis as well, and we can arrange a meeting in, say, three days? These matters are best dealt with swiftly.”

“You’ve already given us a very generous offer, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Creevey says. “I would not have any problem signing the contract now, if Colin is also in agreement…”

“I am,” Colin pipes in. “Getting to work at Hedwig’s still is really more than I could ever ask for, sir, and—”

Harry raises a hand, stopping both Creeveys in their tracks. “Thank you for your enthusiasm, but I really must insist you take the time to go over the contracts. It is a good lesson to read before you sign, no? Also, please consider availability and such—if Colin cannot work as a full-time employee, I am sure we can figure out another method to paying back the debt.”

And Mr. Creevey, faced with the option to teach his son a valuable lesson as a father should, ends up agreeing. “Of course, of course. Thank you, Mr. Potter, Mr. Gaunt.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Harry says with a smile. He shakes hands with them both, standing in preparation to leave.

Tom lingers, allowing Harry to walk ahead. “It is of great importance that the details of both matters in their entirety are kept a secret,” he tells the pair, one hand casually resting on the handle of his rapier. “Some parts have skirted the edge of the law, after all.” He does not specify which. “You have repeatedly stated your gratitude. I can only ask your actions support it. Harry has sacrificed much to help you.”

They understand.

“It was a miracle that cured my son of dragon pox,” Mr. Creevey says. “Perhaps Merlin took pity on us. Whatever the case, I count my blessings every day, and do not need to ask for more.”

Colin, perhaps taking note of his father, adds, “I’m glad my brother’s health is finally improving. Thank you for giving me some time off, sir. I’ll be back to work in a few days.”

Tom inclines his head. “Harry will be glad.”

* * *

The King of Scotia’s study room is not what many people would expect. Rather than a space fit for a king, it’s better said to be a space fit for a pack-rat.

Shelves of books are arranged all about the room—in rows, columns, against the walls, stacked on top of other shelves… There are just as many piles of books as well, precariously stacked to mirror the rock sculptures of a sand dune. Loose leaf papers are haphazardly sandwiched between the layers, despite the many cabinets that are no doubt full of them. And that’s only the paper; that’s nothing to speak of the various magical objects whirling and whistling about.

Harry, well hidden in the shadows of the stone walls, slinks down exactly at the stroke of midnight: Witching Hour. When demons are at their strongest, they tend to overlook their otherwise capable foes. It sounds counterproductive, but that’s the best time to plot against them. When demons are at their weakest can then be reserved for times of action. It’s a combination of habit and code that he uses this knowledge now—only those who were in the war would know, would remember.

“Albus.”

Albus Dumbledore, the King of Scotia, immediately stands from his desk and spins around, hand at the ready. The mark of his bonded weapon glows, but that famous, world-shaking bow never makes an appearance.

“Harry,” he whispers, dropping his hand, “My dear boy… Is that you?”

“It’s been a long time,” Harry says as his answer. “Unfortunately, I’m not here for pleasure.”

Albus blinks, and the shock on his face melts away, only to be replaced with an impenetrable gaze. Truly a king’s disposition, Harry thinks, a bit admiring. There’s a reason why genius means little—monsters like these can flatten them with barely a thought. Harry himself is strong, but he doesn’t doubt that Albus could subdue him in a proper battle. That’s the might of an Old World Titan, alright.

“Of course,” Albus murmurs. “Witching Hour… Of course, of course—do sit—” The Alchemist King waves his hand, and immediately space clears for a chair to float over and settle on the other side of his desk.

Harry walks around, dodging the mess on his way, and takes a seat. The chair is almost too comfortable as the cushions threaten to suck him in like quicksand, but Harry actually likes these types of chairs. He blames it on Albus.

“What can I help you with, Harry?” his once mentor asks, settling back down as well. Albus rests both of his arms on the desk, lacing his fingers together. Harry mirrors this position—it’s common courtesy between two friendly sorcerers. “Do you require sanctuary? Assistance, of any kind?”

 _If only_. Harry sighs. “I appreciate the thought, but unfortunately, it isn’t me who needs help.”

He leans closer across the desk. There’s probably no where as strongly warded as the king’s study room in all of Scotia, not even the king’s sleeping chambers. If Harry considered himself a workaholic before, Albus is most certainly much worse than him.

“No?” Albus asks, furrowing his brows. He takes the cue and leans closer as well.

“No. You see, I’ve run across a rather concerning event in Hogwarts, and I thought you’d appreciate being let known immediately.”

The face of the King of Scotia grows weary and dark. “I see. For you to come see me, it is a grave matter, then. If you are in danger because of your arrival here, say no more—”

“Nonsense, Albus. Even if I was threatened, you know I would ensure all the information I have ends up in your hands. No, this matter… If you would allow me, I have some vested interest in this as well…” Just the thought of it again makes his blood boil. Albus is the farthest thing from incompetent. Someone has malignant intentions, and they didn't care how many casualties there were. “You see—”

Very slowly, taking care to enunciate every single word, Harry whispers, “ _There is a rat inside your castle_.”

* * *

The very next day at around noon, a delivery man steps foot into Harry’s shop.

“Hello,” Harry says. “How may I help you, sir?”

“I’ve got a package here for a Mr. Harry Potter,” the man says.

“This is he.”

“Oh, fantastic,” he says. “Anonymous package, here you go. Got an admirer waiting in the wings, I suppose!” He places a white box on the counter. There’s minimal decoration on it, but the folds and prominent lettering make its identity unmistakable: it’s a cake box.

They laugh a little before the delivery man leaves. Without pomp or circumstance, Harry opens the box. Inside is a delicious-smelling treacle tart, and a small bag of coins. He takes the latter out and inspects it.

_A payment of five hundred galleons to Mr. Harry Potter, as compensation for a most grievous error, on behalf of the Kingdom of Scotia…_

The note goes on for a paragraph more, but Harry doesn’t even need to read it—he knows exactly what it says.

“Not a bad profit,” he murmurs.

Later, he divides the five hundred galleons and gives Tom one bag paired with one phrase.

“Told you I’d turn a profit.”

Tom stares. “Was it really?”

Harry shrugs and elaborates. “Ghost Bark’s market value is roughly thirty galleons, it’s just hard to find for sale. I gathered enough so I can still sell some, too. The sum of the herbs and spices doesn’t beat ten galleons. That’s what, minus 40 galleons total so far? Labor…I mean, we can _argue_ that we did leave for eight days, working 16 to 18 hours, but Hedwig’s was still being tended to in some form or another, for full hours. Subtract that, and after I sell the extraneous ingredients, that’s definitely positive net profit. Food we mostly hunted. On the matter of the potion supplements, I’ll consider that an investment.”

“Investment.”

“Mhm.”

“In what?”

“Hedwig’s, of course,” Harry says.

Tom gives him a long, hard stare.

“In establishing and re-establishing some connections.”

Tom keeps staring.

Harry gives him an exasperated look. “I don’t _like_ making potions, okay? Did you really think I’d keep making them for potentially months to a year?”

“So—”

Harry grins. “I gave the job to the imperial potioneers, of course—handpicked by the King himself so there’ll be no funny business. _And_ I get all the credit, even if it’s only known to three people. Most significantly, the recipe is new and gives me rep with the senior brewers. Senior brewers who have access to discounted ingredients, connections to other potioneers, _and_ mouths to advertise Hedwig's to potential customers.”

“Material for the supplements?”

“From the royal storage. I don’t have to pay a knut. The Department for Magical Malady and Remedy were very apologetic that this occurred, and also wish to keep it a secret.”

“Hm. Passable resolution, then.”

“Barely?”

“Just barely,” Tom states. He shows how small the difference is with his fingers. “Just. And mostly because the play itself was rather entertaining.”

“Oh? You liked the treants?”

“Hated them,” he says. “But if you happen to know any other odd dungeons…”

Harry blinks, and then,

“Bloody hell, you’re an adrenaline junkie, aren’t you—”

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I do have one question, though," Tom begins.

"Mmm? What's that?"

"Do you or do you not have a license to sell dragon pox cure?"

Harry blinks, and then he laughs. " _Oh_. Well, seeing as you're supposed to be my business partner, I suppose I can show you." He gets up out of his seat and goes to his room, digging something out of one of his many boxes before returning. "Here."

Tom, curious about anything concerning Harry, immediately slides the document closer to him. It's supposed to be a summary page of Hedwig's General Store's licenses attached with said original copies, but instead, it's one single piece of paper. Over the box listing all the contents (that are clearly not there) is a bright red circle—a stamp with the seal of Scotia. Four quadrants on one emblem, it's the official coat of arms seen on every flag in Hogwarts.  _Draco Dormiens Nunquam_ _Titillandus_ , the motto reads _._  

Harry passes over something else. "I don't like to take advantage of it, but it does come in handy."

Tom removes the cap to the seal. He stares at the emblem for a long, long time, and then replaces the cap and passes everything back.

"Thank you for putting up with me," Harry tells him, humor evaporating into thin air. "I...trust you."  _Please wait for me. I want to tell you, I'm scared to tell you, I will tell you, but only if you wait._

Instead of reaching out to touch him, Tom touches his own shoulder instead at the exact place the vine had pierced him. It's only for a moment, only to echo that too-close-for-comfort memory, but. That's enough. "I vow never to betray your trust."

They're not quite there yet, but Harry will take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This'll be a short chapter, I say. Nothing happens, I say. Just tying loose ends, I say.
> 
> Tom, stop flirting with Harry I stg he holds up all the plot. Then again, the flirting is what you guys (and me) are here for. Hmm.
> 
> Well now, that aside, this installment is finally done!!! I can finally get back to oneshots until the plot punches us in the face again!!! Hooray! (Sorry it took so long; after I finished up my business, I decided to make the Bad Life Decision of watching Yuri!!! On Ice! before finishing the chapter, and. Three guesses what I did for the past week or so, and your first two don't count.
> 
> Hint: it was really gay.)


End file.
